


Not Gay!

by shiterature



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 1997, Alternate Universe - College/University, Demisexual Sherlock Holmes, F/F, F/M, M/M, Teen Sherlock, Teenlock, Uniform Kink, because why not, imported from wattpad, teen!lock, this is kinda shitty because i wrote it 2 years ago so just take it with a grain of salt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:49:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 69,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27619289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiterature/pseuds/shiterature
Summary: My addition to the fandom is out - and so is John.-In the year 1997, John Watson finds himself at an interview for a job he doesn't need, and then at the same location of a new university flatmate that he initially doesn't want.Meanwhile, Sherlock Holmes is trying to debunk the Scotland Yard's incorrect description of what is actually a group of mass-murders revolving around a small memory-wiping pill. Mr. Holmes needs an assistant, and Mr. Watson needs a companion.Little do either of them know how much they specifically need one another.
Relationships: Irene Adler/Harry Watson, Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 69
Kudos: 22





	1. № 1

Everyone has a talent.

Whether it's music or art or intelligence, everyone is good at something. Dad was good at drinking. Harry was good at hiding. Mum was good at hoovering the carpet. On the flip side, I never thought I was very talented or gifted; not like most people. I always thought I was generic - a blank slate, blank merely because there was no plausible way for me to carve anything in. But what I would come to learn eventually was that I had one talent that was both extremely powerful and blatantly obvious.

I was damn good at lying to myself.

"Mum?" I asked as she drove me to the other side of town in her new car that we could barely afford. It was night, and the streets were dark and somewhat serene.

"Yes, John?" she asked, turning left on to a new street and waiting for my question.

"Do I really need another job?"

She pursed her lips and stared at the road ahead of us. "Sweetie, don't start with this."

"I'm already going to be balancing my studies on my shoulders," I said. "I'll be going to uni in two months, Mum. I don't want to work any more than I need to."

"John Hamish Watson," Mum said, parking in front of a small children's hospital and turning to face me. She always used my middle name when she wanted to have power over me. She likely knew I hated it. "I don't want you to end up like me. Every day I worry about not being able to keep our flat and not being able to pay for food. What if you suddenly end up needing specs? Hmm? What will we do then?"

"Mum," I said, "I, for one, don't have a drug habit. The reason you're not doing well off is because you snorted heroin for five years straight."

Mom closed her eyes and sighed. "Get your arse into that building," she snapped. "I set up an interview for you. Take it." She unlocked the car door and practically shoved me out of it, driving off as soon as my feet touched the Tarmac-infused floor of the car park. I put my hands into the pockets of my grey rain jacket and went inside.

The automatic doors rolled open for me, and I stepped into a room full of bright light, constant phone ringing, and crying children. I insecurely stepped forward to the front desk, where a middle-aged man stared me down.

"May I help you?" he asked groggily, and I nodded.

"John Watson here for an interview."

He flipped through some papers and crossed my name off from a list. "Down the hall to the right. Room 110."

"Right," I said. "Thank you."

He merely grunted and went back to his work, pushing his thin glasses up the bridge of his greasy nose. I turned and headed down the hallway, stopping at the designated room and knocking at the heavy, white door.

"Come in."

I pushed the door open, stepping awkwardly into the room and sitting down in a chair in front of my interviewer. She was a girl about my age, and she shook my hand. "Nice to meet you," she said. "My name is Molly."

"John," I said. "Watson. John... Hamish... Watson." I stiffly sat back in my seat as Molly looked down at her sheet of paper, her thin lips bright red and her eyelids tinted blue.

"Let's begin, shall we?" she said. "So you're here for an extra job?"

"Yes," I said. "I'm going to university in a few months, and my Mum wants to make sure my finances are..." I sighed. "...extra stable."

"Okay," she said. "And do you have experience with children?"

"Lots. Buckets and buckets," I said, remembering looking after my baby cousins with my sister Harriet, wincing as I thought of the screaming and crying and endless loads of poo.

"And what about medical experience?" she asked. "Not like you'd need it in the job you'd be taking anyway."

"I've taken four safety classes and three first aid classes in the past few months," I said, "not like it's important."

It really wasn't important, which was confirmed as the young girl sighed and raised her eyebrows in mock enthusiasm.

"Okay," Molly said. "Your mum gave me all the other information I needed. You may leave now."

"Oh," I said, surprised at how quick that had been. "Um... Thank you." Perhaps she just wanted to get rid of me. Perhaps things would turn out and they wouldn't hire me, after all.

"Sure," Molly said, smiling at me. "You're a lot better than the last candidate."

"The last one?" I asked. "What was wrong with the last one?"

Molly opened her mouth to speak, but the man from the front desk came in and leaned on the doorframe, alerting the both of us with a quick cough.

"I'll need those blood vials and their analyses in fifty-five minutes," he said. "You can leave, Watson."

I had always found it strikingly odd when people called me by my last name. Harry had told me that people do such things in instances when they're far too formal and therefore afraid of intimacy. Even though it was Harriet who had said it, I had to admit it still made perfect sense. This man looked like he hadn't even seen intimacy in thousands of years. Maybe even millions. He was a celibate fossil, to be frank. An absolute incel.

I stood up promptly and headed outside. It had become apparent that my mum wouldn't be driving to get me, so I knew I had to walk home. Dad was definitely drunk, and who knows what Harry was up to. But this was fine, because I liked walking. The air always smelt good at night as well, especially being cold and crisp with the season.

I slowly made my way down the street and to a small outdoor park lit with streetlights and lined with benches. I breathed in the fresh air as I made way down the dirt path, step by step. My old, worn trainers scuffed on the surface of the loose gravel, and I slowly came to a smooth halt as I noticed someone on the nearest park bench.

He was lying on his back, a thick, long and black wool coat draped underneath him. His full, heart shaped lips held a cigarette in his mouth, his cheekbones becoming even more defined than usual as he inhaled.

He was... odd.

"Are you alright?" I asked him, and he slowly turned his head to me. Expressionless. Seamlessly coy.

"I mean," I continued, afraid that I'd offended him in some way, "it's not very often that you see someone flat on his back, smoking in the centre of a park near the middle of the night."

He chuckled a bit, sarcasm lingering in his throat, his voice rich and deep as his thick, black curls fell back off of his forehead. "I didn't think anyone would ask."

"Oh," I said. "Well, I did." I watched as he exhaled a breath of smoke into the air, watching it float away from him in a wispy cloud. "Should I be expecting an answer?"

"It takes one to know one," the boy said. "Or, at least, that's what my mum says. She exaggerates everything." He rolled his eyes dramatically as he stuck the cigarette back between his teeth. The action was hypocritical; ironic. But I didn't mind. In fact, I understood.

"So you have a home to go back to, then?" I asked. Sure, it was borderline small-talk, but it was a legitimate concern of mine, observing his apparently disastrous mental state.

The boy sat up. "Do I really look homeless?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. "I honestly can't remember the last time I ate." He dropped the remains of his cigarette on the ground and stomped on it with his right foot. I sat down next to him and put my hands on my knees.

"I'm, um," I said, offering for him to shake my hand. "John Watson."

"Sherlock Holmes," the boy said, accepting the gesture and leaning back against the bench. His hand was sturdy and firm as it shook mine. It seemed impossible to wriggle out of it, even though we both wore gloves. "How was the interview?"

He looked at me expectantly, and it took a few moments for my mind to process what he had said.

I leant forward in my seat. "How... my — What?"

"Your interview just now," Sherlock said, motioning with his head in the general direction of the hospital. "How did it go?"

Who was this boy? A stalker? What was he? Maybe he wasn't even real. Was that possible? Was I asleep?

I cleared my throat, hoping that along with it I would have a chance at clearing my head. "It went... well, thank you."

"They always like the normal people," Sherlock said. "Molly says they're better for the workplace. But how would she know? All she ever does is examine some dying children's blood and freshen up her lipstick an average of every seven minutes and thirty-four seconds."

Trying to keep a conversation going and ignoring the weirdness of the boy I was sitting with, I said, "She never freshened up her lipstick when I was there."

"Did she not?" Sherlock asked. "How odd."

I furrowed my brow, looking him straight in the eye. "Not really," I said. "She probably just likes you."

"People don't like me," Sherlock snarled, wrinkling up his face. "At least, never the right people. It's always the psychopaths or the maniacs. Never normal people. And never anyone I'd like back."

"How many psychopaths and maniacs have you met?" I asked.

"Seven this last month," he replied. "See, I was trying to find someone to share a room with when I went off to university in a few months. The person I was assigned to called the school and demanded someone else, and Molly wasn't on my list of good-"

"Which university?" I interjected, hoping he wouldn't mind. He didn't seem to, and I wasn't surprised. He didn't appear to be one to believe in social constructs such as manners or discipline-induced courtesy.

"Oh," he said, "Just the one a few kilometres off from here. Westborough ring a bell? My brother went there, so he helped me wriggle my way in. He's kind of the government."

Ignoring the last sentence, I did something my logical mind would soon regret. I, John Hamish Watson, offered to be the flatmate for Sherlock Holmes.

"I'm going there, too!" I said. "I could share your room."

Sherlock looked a bit taken aback. Sensing that I wasn't wanted, I went back on my offer with embarrassment. "If you wanted. I mean, I'm sure you have other-"

"No, no," Sherlock said. "Thank you, John. I... wasn't expecting that. I would be honoured."

Having not a clue what I should do next, I nodded my head.

And right then was the moment I suddenly realised that living with Sherlock Holmes would be a bad idea. As if his personality traits and smoking habits weren't enough already, at that moment there was a deep, foreboding rustle in the bushes, and the boy sighed with what looked like a feeling of sarcastic dread.

"Oh, get it over with," he groaned towards the bushes, and anxiety crept into my chest as I began to fear what was going on. And it was an appropriate reaction indeed, because, in reply to Sherlock's welcoming comment, a man with a gun jumped out from behind a tree.

Startled, I raised my hands in the air, my heart thumping as I closely watched the end of the handgun. Was this a trick? Had it been set up? I couldn't risk anything either way, and I reminded myself to stay calm. I focused on my breathing and observed, knowing panic would only make things worse.

The reason I knew that living with this boy was a bad choice was apparent when I looked over at him to see that he was completely placid in his seat, as if not bothered at all. As if this sort of thing happened to him all the time.

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?" he demanded, to which Sherlock calmly said, "He can't come to the door right now. May I take a message?"

"Get your bloody hands up in the air, Holmes!" he shouted, waving the gun aimlessly between us. Sherlock crossed his legs instead, looking the man dead in the eye.

"I think you're doing something very illegal, Jim," he said, his hands still casually resting in his lap. "See, firearm weapons aren't exactly allowed-"

"Shut up!" the man hollered. "Shut up now!"

I could hear blood pounding in my ears, adrenaline surging through me so fast I was afraid I wouldn't be able to breathe. Sherlock calmly stared down our attacker, a half-smile dressing his lips.

And then the gun was fired.

Harry told me later that the police found Sherlock Holmes tending to a gunshot wound on my shoulder, and that he claimed I had hit my head on the metal bench as I had been thrust backwards.

Harry also told me that I had forgotten almost my whole entire childhood - permanently - because of it. And no matter how hard I tried, I could not prove her wrong. And, in a sick, twisted way, I was relieved.


	2. № 2

From the desk of Harriet Watson: What John Forgot

My brother was a joyful child. Of course, as all children do, he went through rough patches. But, for the most part, John Hamish Watson was a contagious ball of densely saturated happiness.

All the time, he was a pirate.

When he was very young, he and a school friend would meet by the waterside and play together. He said one of his pirate names was Victor, and everyone called him that. I didn't really find much interest in it, so I would nod my head as he told me of adventure upon adventure with his pirate friend.

We never even met him. Not him or his family. We still let him visit there, though, constantly reminding him to be cautious.

But the sister of his friend was evil. She chased him home one day, and he claimed that she had a knife and was tricking him into jumping into the freezing lake. He couldn't swim at the time, and we made sure he never visited there again.

But he missed his friend, saying there was never any other person that was just like the boy. Nobody as special.

He still has an eye patch and a black, wooden sword in his box of old things, though he won't even recognise them now. There was no chance of him remembering anymore. And maybe it was better this way.

Of course, he knew his language, friends, family and things he learnt in school, but no memories. No recollections of things that happened. So I think it's good for him. It would erase the bad things, and that's what's important.

The point in really getting at is that I'm glad he has a chance to forget Dad.


	3. № 3

"We're moving."

I slowly opened my eyes. "Sorry, what?" I asked groggily, finding myself in a hospital bed, wearing uncomfortable clothing that looked like scrubs. Mum was sitting in front of me, her car keys in her right hand and a wrinkle of anxiety between her brows.

"We need to move to a nicer - a safer - part of town."

I tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in my shoulder pushed me back down. My mum sighed, biting her lip and looking anxiously out the window. "I can't have you risk your life by merely walking," she said. I gritted my teeth against the pain and laid my head completely in the pillow beneath me.

"We've lived here my whole life, Mum," I said. "This is the first relatively bad thing that's happened. I don't want you to struggle any more than you already are."

My logic was ignored as my mother stood up and began to walk out the door. "I've already settled it," she said. "We move in a week from tomorrow. Tell me if there's anything you want to donate."

She almost slammed the door behind her, and I sighed in frustration, closing my eyes and wishing to go back to sleep.

What good would come out of moving?

☯

"Here we are," the cabbie said enthusiastically. "Your new home. Make sure not to scratch the car when you take the things out of the boot. Just got a fresh paint job."

I slung my backpack, which included all the possessions I wanted to keep, over my good shoulder as Harry took a box out of the boot. She had dark circles under her eyes, as she had just stayed over at her friend's home last night. She turned to our mother and asked, "Is Dad ever coming?"

Mum took a few boxes out of the car, letting Harry do the rest, and crossed her arms over her chest. "He was at a bar again last night," she said, "so, knowing him, he may not even know where we've moved until tomorrow."

This wasn't news to me, so I cautiously walked inside. "Mum," I asked, "Which room is mine?"

Harry immediately piped up, saying, "The first floor is mine! Mum should get the ground floor. And you can sleep downstairs with the spiders." She hissed through her teeth, her curly hair blowing all around her in the light breeze.

"Harriet!" Mum reprimanded her. I actually didn't mind staying in the basement. The windows were level with the ground, so it would be easy to evacuate in a fire. And it never got too hot in a basement. So I slowly walked down the stairs, wincing each time I moved my shoulder, and eventually arrived at the bottommost level of our new home.

It was large and grey, and there was a normal-sized bedroom connected to it with a window looking out at the trees, which were either red or completely bare. I dropped my knapsack on the ground and rolled out a sleeping bag on top of a few blankets. This would do.

Coming back upstairs, I took my pain medication and began to explore the house. It was small, yet comfortable. The windows were large and bright, and the air was full of floating dust. I liked the smell of the place. It was warm and smoky and comforting.

A knock at the door sparked my attention, and I turned toward the noise.

"Could you get the door, John?" Mum called from the other room, so I walked over to it and opened it up as wide as it possibly went, letting it bounce off the wall and reveal four people; a mum, a dad, and two others that were hidden behind them.

"Hello," the woman said, holding out a plate of baked things. "We're your new neighbours! We live just across the street."

"Oh, hi," I said. "Thank you."

"And what's your name?" the lady asked.

I straightened my back a bit. "John," I said. "John Watson."

"Oh, how nice." the lady said. "It's nice to meet you, John."

"Wait a minute!" a familiar voice shouted from the back, and the two parents parted to expose two grumpy, tall boys, one being a complete stranger, and the other being Sherlock Holmes himself.

"He's my flatmate," Sherlock said. "Hello, John." He gave a tiny little wave with an awkward and insecure hand.

My mouth hung open. Was this possible? How?

"Hello, Sherlock," I said in awe as he smiled awkwardly in my direction. My mum came up behind me then, taking the plate of food from my frozen hand and introducing herself to our new neighbours.

"These two will be roomies, did you know?" Sherlock's father said, pointing between the two of us.

Sherlock sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "Please don't say... roomie. That... That should be a federal offense."

My mother giggled excitedly and invited them inside.

"Oh, do come in!" she said, letting them file through the doors. "I know it's empty, but we do have a table and some chairs! We can all get acquainted a bit! John, what say you and your new friend take a walk outside and get to know each other?"

"Oh," I said. "Okay."

"And wear a coat, and a scarf! Bundle up as well as possible. You don't want to become sick while you're injured."

I only took a coat as I walked outside, Sherlock following close behind. I shut the door behind us, and I stuck my hands in my pockets.

"So," I said, "This place is new."

My future flatmate was still, his pale skin heavily contrasting the vibrant colour of Autumn that surrounded the both of us. "And what of it?"

I shrugged, not having a set idea of what I was to say. "Would you mind, I don't know, showing me around a bit?"

Sherlock nodded silently and began walking down the street, slowing his pace so I could keep up. The chilly air bit at my nose, but it was a nice feeling. It was my favourite sort of weather.

"You live here, then," I said. "What a coincidence."

"Mm." Sherlock said in what I hoped was agreement. He kept his bright eyes fixed on the street ahead, and I knew that chatting wasn't going to work between us.

"Look," I said, "I think it would be best if we conversed. You know, to get to know each other before we move in together."

"I don't really need to learn about you," Sherlock said. "I know enough already."

I scoffed. "Like what?"

He inhaled and began speaking quickly, words rolling off of his tongue faster than they could if they were being propelled by some sort of other-worldly force. The planets themselves pulled at his tongue, and rapidly so. I found it difficult for myself to keep up.

"I know you want to be an army doctor, likely not because of interest in the occupation itself but because of your family. Your sister is a homosexual, but she has yet to come out about it. That's why she was up so late last night, by the way. Her friend is a bit more than what you'd think. Your mother is an anxious wreck, and your father is wasted twenty-four-seven. You have close to no friends due to your personality in general. Oh, and you may want to rethink the medication you're taking. It's caused your hand to twitch. It also makes you drowsy, which I really don't recommend you be when university begins."

We had stopped walking at this point. I was completely flabbergasted, looking up at him with a mixture of fear, astonishment and suspicion.

"How did you know all that?" I asked. "Who told you? Have you been stalking me?"

"No," he said. "I notice things. Nobody told me. I figured it myself."

He said it so nonchalantly, as if simply noticing one's whole life story was such a casual thing. Sure, it's normal to notice a bird fly overhead or a bus honk a few streets off, but "noticing" a whole family system, in my case, at least, was completely unheard of.

"Are you a... a creeper of some sort, then?"

"Of course not, John." He sighed, and his breath clouded up in the air around him. I tilted my head and squinted my eyes in curiosity.

"Then," I asked, looking him up and down, "What exactly are you?"

He glanced at me for a short moment. "I'm an aspiring consulting detective," he said. "The only one in the world, actually. Which means that when the police can't do their job, which is quite often - actually, scratch that. Which is all the time - I am the one they ask for help."

I slowly nodded. "Oh."

"Do you mind the violin?"

I was taken off guard at the sudden change of subject. "Sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I feel like it. It usually happens when I'm thinking. I think a lot."

"Well," I said, "Do you play well?"

"I can play beautifully, yes," Sherlock said. "And there are also times when I use the bow like a handsaw."

I nodded. "Hm."

My feet crushed all the falling leaves, and they crinkled under my weight. I stared at the ground, trying to think of things to say.

"So, um," I began, still looking at my feet. "Do you have a girlfriend, then?"

He eyed me almost suspiciously out of the corner of his eye. "No," he said. "Girlfriends... Not my area."

"Oh," I said. "Ohhh."

He kept walking, looking straight ahead of him now. I inhaled and asked, "So you've got a boyfriend."

He furrowed his brow and clenched his jaw.

"Which is... fine, by the way," I decided to clarify. "You've got a boyfrien-"

"No," he interrupted. "I have not."

"I see," I said, absentmindedly licking my bottom lip. "So you're unattached. Just like me."

Sherlock sighed as if in annoyance or exasperation, and he lifted his eyes to look at the red trees above us. They were beautiful, the leaves.

Adding an awkward tag-line to my already awkward conversation, I said, "Good."

"John," Sherlock said, stopping and looking down at me. "Although I'm highly flattered by your interest, I consider myself married to my responsibilities, like my work and my education. I don't have time-"

"Noooo," I said, interrupting him and raising my pointer finger in the air. "No. I wasn't trying to... No."

He stood up straight and nodded. "Okay."

"I was just saying, or what I was meaning to say was," I clarified, putting my hands back in my pockets. "It's all fine. Everything's fine."

He sighed. "Thank you."

I nodded curtly, and we kept walking down the road. A brown squirrel darted out ahead of us, disappearing back under the leaves after crossing the street. Sherlock watched it intently before pursing his lips and staring straight ahead again. He was so... weird. But he was so new. I didn't know how I felt about him. I suppose I had a few years ahead of me to figure it out.

"Do you read much?" Sherlock asked.

"What?" I said. "I mean, I thought you weren't one for small talk."

"I'm trying my best to chat," he said. "Please. Just answer the question."

"Right," I said. "Well, yes. I read a lot of Shakespeare."

His eyes lit up suddenly. "Oh, I read his works as well! I've always been one for classics."

"I quite liked A Midsummer Night's Dream," I said. "I think Romeo and Juliet is a bit overrated."

"Very overrated," he agreed. "Suicide out of love has become too much of a common theme. What about Charles Dickens?"

"Yes!" I said. "I've read Great Expectations a number of times."

Sherlock smiled a bit. "I recently found myself reading The Great Gatsby."

I smiled. "Oh, I love that one! The character depth was amazing!"

He smirked. "Yes," he said. "It was."

And so we began chatting. Whenever I got excited about something, he would kind of smile down at me and keep the momentum going by urging me to talk about things more. He listened as I told him about The Hobbit and the mastiff I'd had as a child and how I used to love pirates, or, at least, I thought I did because of what Harry had told me. And I think, although I'm quite sure I was only imagining it, that he began to glow.

In return, Sherlock told me about his brother using a new weight loss programme and how they would race each other to see who could solve a Rubik's cube the fastest and how he knew this woman named Martha Hudson who had an evil husband and how he would go visit her when the husband wasn't home. He told me about dragons and his secret love for kittens and his infatuation with stars. And I figured out that maybe, just maybe, I had found myself a first best friend.


	4. № 4

I awoke to the sound of rain on my window, and I sat up in my sleeping bag and tried to orient myself. It must have been the middle of the night, judging by how the sky looked. Although it's always harder to tell with rain.

Thunder began rolling here and there, and, knowing I wouldn't be able to sleep for a while now, I picked up my journal from under my pillow and took out a pen, turning on a small, dim lamp by my bed to see the pages.

3rd August, 1997

I moved into a new home today. Turns out I'm neighbours with my new university flatmate, Sherlock Holmes! What are the chances?

I think it would one day be a good idea to get him a kitten. He loves them, apparently. Too bad most dorm rooms don't allow them. He needs some friends other than me. It's sad seeing him so closed off.

I'm still thinking of the army. Should I go? Should I do it? Once I learn the basics of medical aid, I could probably enlist. Besides, if I'm only helping people instead of fighting, it won't be too dangerous, right? And it's not like anyone would miss me.

A tapping on my window distracted me, and I jumped (and possibly yelped) when I saw Sherlock squatting on the ground just outside of my window, in the harsh wind and rain, his coat collar pulled over the top of his head to protect his hair from the water. He pointed to the window crank, and I rushed over and opened it for him. A gush of wind and rain blew in violently, and the outdoors whistled loudly as I invited my friend inside. He climbed through my window and jumped down onto the floor, his hands cupped together.

"Sherlock," I whispered, "What the hell are you doing?"

He smiled excitedly. "I knew you'd be up," he said. "I was exploring the woods trying to find traces of cocaine."

"Cocai-" I stopped talking and closed the window with a sigh. "Why are you searching for drugs in the middle of the night outside my house?"

"I was searching for drugs," he said, "until I found this." Sherlock opened up his hands to reveal a baby bird that was about the size of his thumb, sleeping in a ball. "I found her on the ground and there wasn't a nest in sight."

"Oh, my god," I said in astonishment. "Is it alive?"

"She," Sherlock corrected, "is very well, actually. One of the healthiest baby birds I've seen. I'm just keeping her warm so I can bring her to an animal sanctuary."

I gasped as she moved a bit in his hands. "May I stroke her?"

"Gently," he said. "One of her wings seems to be sprained, so be weary of it."

I took my first two fingers and ran them down her tiny body, stopping at her tail and smiling down at her. "Does she have a name?" I asked.

"Not yet," Sherlock said. "I was hoping you'd have some ideas."

He sat cross-legged on the floor and I followed suit, both of our heads bumping against each other as we examined the precious little being that we had saved from the storm.

"I've always liked the name Rosie," I said.

Sherlock nodded. "Then Rosie it is."

I stood up. "I have an idea," I said. "Stay here. And be quiet."

I slowly went out of my room and up the basement stairs, entering the kitchen. The smell of bread hit my nostrils, but I ignored it and looked around for a small box. Lights were on in here, and I made sure nobody was awake to see me making a bed for a tiny bird.

I found one little cardboard box on the counter, and I took a soft rag from the sink and brought them back downstairs. Sherlock was still cradling the bird in his hands, and he perked up when he saw me return with the materials.

"A box and bedding for Rosie," I said, "to keep her warm and dry."

I opened the box and put the folded fabric on the bottom of it. Sherlock lowered his hands into the box and gently laid her down inside. She fit perfectly, with just enough room to breathe and move. I took my pen and poked a few holes in the lid, placing the lid on the small box and placing the box in Sherlock's hands. Our hands brushed up against each others', and I suddenly noticed how cold they were.

"Do you need gloves?" I asked. "Your hands are cold."

Sherlock sniffed, his nose red and chilled as he looked down at his hands. "I'll be okay," he said.

"Are you sure?" I asked. "I have an extra pair." I reached into my rucksack and handed him a pair of soft, black leather gloves. "My grandmother gave me another set. You can have these. They're quite warm."

He took them hesitantly out of my hand. "Thank you, John," he said, "but I don't really get cold."

"Rubbish," I said, handing him a thick blue scarf. "This, too. If you're going to be out in the cold rain all night, you'd best stay warm."

Sherlock took the scarf in his hands and crinkled his forehead in confusion. "Can you show me how to tie these?" he asked. "I've never had a scarf before."

"It's simple," I said. "Personally, I prefer it this way." I folded it in half and wrapped it around his neck, pulling the ends through the loop on the other side and pulling it snug around him. He nodded and smiled for a few moments.

"Thank you, John."

I smiled at him. "Of course."

We sat there together in silence for a short while until he said, "You're a good friend, John."

"Really?" I asked.

"Well, you're actually my only friend, so I can technically only compare you to yourself," Sherlock said, "But I think you're a very good companion."

"Oh," I said. "Thank you, Sherlock. You're a good friend, too."

He stood up, putting his new gloves on his hands and taking Rosie in his left one. He went towards the window and began to open it.

"Hey, Sherlock?" I asked as he began climbing back outside.

"Yes?"

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out for a few moments. Finally, I found my voice and decided on "Stay warm."

He smiled. "I will, John." he said.

And then, with another roll of thunder, Sherlock Holmes was out of sight.


	5. № 5

Mum was getting on my nerves, to say the least.

"How's your new friend?" she kept asking. "How's Sherlock Holmes?"

I kept telling her that he was fine, and that if she was so utterly curious that she could walk across the street and talk to him herself. But she didn't want to listen. Not at all. She kept asking me, as if I would know all the time.

He, in fact, turned into the main talk at the lunch table completely against my will. We would be sitting down and preparing to eat, my dad all hungover and tired, my sister most likely thinking about lesbian things, and the first attempt my mother would make at conversing was turning to me and asking how Sherlock was doing.

It was annoying as hell. But I couldn't tell Mum that. I didn't want to be rude. However, I never failed to express my irritation passive-aggressively.

"So," Mum said, sitting down at the table with us as my father laid his head in his arms and my sister stared off into space, "How's your friend Sherlock?"

I sighed inwardly. "Fine," I said. "It's all fine."

She nodded. "Don't tell anyone," she said, "But if I were his age, I would totally date him."

At first I didn't know how to respond, but then, remembering the conversation we had shared walking down the street, I informed her out of utter stupidity that I wasn't very sure that he was straight.

"I think he's gay, actually," I said. "I don't know."

Mum leaned back in her seat. "Oh," she said. "There are pills for that, you know."

I smiled dryly. "I'm quite aware."

"I've heard before that homosexuality could be contagious," she said, and I sighed.

"And you believe that...?" I asked.

Mum looked at me as if I were from another planet. "You never know," she said. "But, if you ever start feeling gay, just let me know, alright? We can get you some medication."

I sighed. "Mum," I said, "I don't think being gay is a mental illness, and I'm sure it isn't contagious, and I know it can't be fixed with pills. And I think that, even if he is gay, we need to accept Sherlock for who he is. And, since you're most likely wondering, I'm not gay."

Mum smiled weakly at me and began eating her food. I got a feeling that I possibly wouldn't be invited to dinner, which was fine, I supposed.

I excused myself from the table without eating at all and went outside.

The air was crisp and clean, and I liked it. I sat on the front step and considered jogging around the block, or maybe walking through the leaves again, or visiting Sherlock and checking up on the baby bird. Maybe I could do all three. I needed a break from my family anyways.

So, looking both ways before I did, I crossed the street and headed towards Sherlock's house, knocking on the door four rough times as I arrived.

His older brother, which I assumed was the eldest, opened the door. He had a sort of permanent scowl on his lips, and he had stretch marks on his neck where I guessed an excess of fat used to be. He narrowed his eyes at me without even saying hello.

"John Watson," he said.

"Is Sherlock here?" I asked.

"Mmm," he mumbled as if in thought. "Will you be keeping him out of trouble?"

"Um," I said, "I have a good conscience."

"Good," he replied curtly. "If you report to me everything that happens between the two of you, I'll give you a nice fifteen pounds each time."

I furrowed my brow at him. "Sorry?"

"I was sure you'd be in need of a few extra pounds; am I wrong?" he asked.

"Look," I said, "May I see Sherlock before you turn me into some super-villain? Please?"

The brother swung the door open and called loudly up the stairs.

"Sherlock!" he hollered. "It's John."

I heard rapid footsteps and watched as Sherlock darted down the stairs, the box from last night in his hands.

"Good," he said cheerfully, smiling politely down at me. "I was hoping you would accompany me to deliver Rosie."

"Where are we delivering her?" I asked.

"A place over on the side of a nearby road," Sherlock responded, handing me the box. "They take baby animals. Don't open the box, though; she may try to escape. I fed her a worm using some forceps this morning, so I know she's fine."

I nodded. "Let's go then, yeah?"

He smiled. "Let's."

We began walking, and his brother shut the door defiantly as we slowly disappeared from his view. "Have fun on your little jaunt, you two," he sneered before the door latched shut.

"What's his name?" I asked.

Sherlock sighed. "Mycroft. He's my brother, and I'm not supposed to pick on him because he's going to be part of the government."

"You mean, like, a prime minister or something?" I asked.

"No," Sherlock said. "He will literally be the government. No other title would fit what he's planning to do any more."

I pursed my lips. "Well, what's he planning to do?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said. "I think it's just him trying to satisfy his need for authority."

We walked in silence, Rosie in Sherlock's pocket as we neared the animal rescue.

"My mum asks about you a lot," I said.

Sherlock laughed a bit. "Does she really?"

"Quite often, yes," I said. "Ever since yesterday, she's been asking me nonstop about you. Oh! And you'll never believe what she told me this morning."

"What did she tell you?"

"She told me," I replied, "that she would date you if she were your age. Isn't that preposterous?"

Sherlock snorted, hunching over as he walked. "Am I-" he giggled, trying his best to spit out his words instead of laughing. "Am I a potential victim of almost-pedophilia?"

"Stay clear of my mum," I joked, my sneakers scuffing against the pavement. "Remember that now."

"I think I'll have no choice but to do exactly that."

We turned a corner onto an even quieter street, walking through the expanse of fallen, yellow leaves. Sherlock gave a content sigh as he looked up at the sky.

"You know," he said, "you're my first real friend, John."

Startled, I turned to face him. "You're joking me."

"I am not," he admitted. "I mean, I've got Lestrade, but he only talks to me when absolutely necessary. And Mrs. Hudson doesn't count; she's more like an aunt."

"But why haven't you got more friends?" I asked. "You're not a monster or anything."

"From what I've heard," Sherlock said, "People would like befriending a monster. Monsters are cool and fascinating and dangerous. But me, I'm just a weirdo. I'm not cool or fascinating and I can't protect anyone. So why would I have friends?"

I looked down. "Well," I said, "if it makes you feel much better, I think you're fascinating."

He was quiet, watching the wind gently carry wandering leaves across the street before speaking.

"It does, John," Sherlock said, a slight smile in his voice. "It truly does."

I nodded. "Good."

We entered a shop on our left, Sherlock taking the small box out of his pocket and the both of us began approaching the front desk. An older lady looked up as we approached, turning her chair to face us as Sherlock set the box down on the counter.

"This is Rosie, a bird we found in the storm," he said. "I've been taking care of her for the last twelve hours since she has a broken wing."

The lady started opening the box, but Sherlock stopped her by placing his fingers on top of hers and pushing the lid back down. "So far," he said, "I've observed her to be an escape artist."

The lady nodded and shooed us out of the room with a small wave of her hand. "We'll take care of it," she said. "Mary! There's a little bird here."

A girl about our age hurried into the room. She was average height with blonde, curly hair, and I thought she was quite average in terms of attraction. She smiled at us as she took the box in her hands.

"Thank you," she said, looking directly at me. I nodded awkwardly, and she rushed to the back of the establishment.

Sherlock and I walked outside and sat down on a bench made of rotting wood and cold, black metal. It was a rather small bench, so it was naturally quite the squeeze, but we made it work. As usual, Sherlock stared ahead of us at absolutely nothing at all, and I observed.

"My mum doesn't want you to be gay," I told him.

He said nothing.

"She says it's contagious."

Nothing again.

"I think she's wrong," I declared. "I think it would be cool to have a gay friend."

There was a short moment of silence before I got a response.

"Cool?" Sherlock asked.

"You know," I said. "New. Different. Enlightening... Fun?"

"Fun?"

"Maybe it's actually best if I shut up now," I said.

"Yes, I would think so," Sherlock agreed. "That would be better for both of us."

"By the way," I said, "I'm not going to hound you about it, but if you do happen to be gay, you can tell me."

He kept staring into oblivion. "Thank you, John."

I nodded. "No... problem."

After another awkward silence, I added, "On the contrary, you can tell me if you're not gay, too."

"You're making this awkward, John."

I sighed. "I'm sorry," I said. "I tend to do that."

"I've observed as much."

I crossed one of my legs over the other and looked at the scenery ahead of us. Everything was wonderful and bright and yellow and-

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Sherlock said, watching just as I was.

I agreed inwardly whilst saying, "I thought you weren't one to mention beauty."

"Maybe," he said, "but that doesn't mean I can't appreciate it." Sherlock then turned his head to me, blinked, and looked back at the leaves.

I quite liked what he said. I repeated it on a loop in my head, noticing that it only sounded good if it was in his voice with him saying it. And, for some reason, I decided to remember it.

"Hungry?" Sherlock asked, and I stood up.

"Starving," I said.

He laughed with an expression that sort of expressed an 'if only you knew' face, and I decided not to read into it too much.

"Oh, John, by the way," Sherlock said, inhaling and looking down at his hands. "I need you to help me with something."

I shifted my weight from foot to foot as I waited to begin walking again, the cold finally starting to seep through my coat. "What do you need help with?"

"I need help," Sherlock said, "With a case."

I noticed he was wearing my scarf and my gloves, and it felt nice to know that I was helping him to take care of himself. "What sort of case?" I asked.

"A serial killer sort of case," he responded, and my heart leapt a bit inside of my chest. We began walking to a destination unknown by me, and I kept second-guessing what I had just heard.

"Are you serious?" I asked.

"Dead serious," Sherlock smirked. "That was a pun, by the way."

"That was an awful pun," I said. "People died in a killing spree and you're making a pun out of it?"

"Precisely, John," Sherlock said. "It's a killer case. You'll love it."

"Stop," I said. "No more puns."

"Fine," Sherlock said. "But you're still a crucial part of this investigation, so you shouldn't opt out just because of a few harmless jokes about it."

"I haven't even opted in yet," I pointed out.

"Touché," he said, "but still try to give it a go. You can benefit this whole... thing."

"But how?" I asked. "I can't tell people their life stories just by looking at them the way you can. I have literally nothing to offer."

"Yes, you have, actually, many things to offer," Sherlock said. "I'm just not sure what they are yet."

I sighed. "Yet you're still sure you need me."

Sherlock turned and opened a door to a restaurant on the side of the road. "Yes, I am," he said. "Now, instead of talking about this, let me tell you about the case."

I pursed my lips. "Fine."

A bloke about ten to fifteen years older than we were hustled up to us with a smile on his face. He looked like he hadn't slept in a bit too long, but his enthusiasm suggested the complete opposite.

"Angelo!" Sherlock said in a friendly manner, smiling at him as he brought us to a table in an empty room next to a window. Angelo kept babbling on in some sort of half-Italian accent about how the quiet room was a vital amenity. I stayed quiet, and I sat down across from Sherlock, who constantly stared out the window at the moving traffic. Was he even listening? Likely not.

Angelo handed each of us a menu, and then bent over and whispered, "As usual, everything's free for you and your date."

Sherlock smiled and thanked him as he walked off.

"Um," I said, "I'm not his date!"

But nobody seemed to pay attention to that statement. In slight frustration, I sighed and looked over the menu. Sherlock studied my face as I read through it, and I looked up at him.

"Aren't you getting anything?" I asked.

He puckered his lips in thought. "Depends. What day is it?"

"What day?" I asked. "You should eat every day, Sherlock. Every. Single. Day."

"Not necessarily."

I furrowed my brow. "Well, it's Wednesday."

He nodded. "I can hold off for another nine hours."

"Never mind," I said. "It's Friday."

He rolled his eyes. "Nice try," he said. "Making me do things isn't very easy."

I sighed, clenching my jaw. Angelo returned, and I ordered an extra large serving of fettuccine in case I could get Sherlock to eat anything.

"So," Sherlock said, "There have been four recent reports in the last month in which a person has gone missing and was found in the middle of a random part of London without any recollection of anyone they ever loved romantically. They were all sent to doctors and brain damage specialists, but they couldn't be helped. They then disappeared again and were found dead the next morning, all killed by a shot to the brain stem in the back of the neck."

I looked around the room. "And?"

"And Lestrade doesn't think it, but I'm sure they were all done by the same person."

"Pause," I said. "To start off, who exactly is Lestrade?"

"He's a sort of colleague of mine," Sherlock said. "He wants to be a detective, and he's started taking training classes at university."

"Okay," I said, watching as Sherlock took a knife from the table and absentmindedly began fiddling with it. "So you're saying that it hadn't even been listed as a serial - actually, how do you even know all this?"

"I do detective work, obviously," he replied.

"You couldn't have been more cryptic if you tried," I muttered, pressing my thumb and index finger against the bridge of my nose as Angelo arrived with my food. I thanked him and took a bite, interrupting Sherlock's Shakespeare-length monologue as I asked, "And why does Angelo give you free food?"

"I got him off a murder charge."

"Oh," I said. "He was innocent, I'm hoping?" The thought of a possible murderer serving me food wasn't a pleasant one.

"Sort of," Sherlock said. "When the murders happened, he was stealing a car."

I nodded. "Do you still not want to eat?"

"Eating takes up so much time," he said. "Think of how quickly I could explain the case to you if I wasn't chewing half the time."

I shrugged. "Suit yourself," I twirled a few more noodles round my fork before saying, "Proper nutrition quickens and improves the overall function of the brain, so in the lost time it takes you to eat, you're actually saving time in advance because you can think faster when you aren't starving to death."

He snorted sarcastically and opened his mouth to speak, but I interrupted him again. "What if I told you that I'll only take the case if you eat food at least once a day?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Why are you so obsessed with me eating?" he asked.

"I'm... just..." I shrugged. "Concerned?"

He nodded. "May I speak now?"

"Sure," I said. "Go ahead."

"As I was saying," he continued, "it's obviously a serial killer because all the cases were exactly the same. All the victims were women with similar-looking features and of roughly the same age. And none of them remembered the man who erased their memory. Lestrade says that we can't assume it's a serial killer, because once you start assuming everything that happened the case starts to crumble apart. He knows nothing, clearly, so I decided to-"

"May I have your fork quick?" I asked.

"Sure. Help yourself," Sherlock replied. "So I decided to stop listening to Lestrade, because I know I'm not only assuming, but I'm also solving. A hypothesis can't be tested until it has been created. He wants to try to solve it his way, so I've stopped working with him and I need a new assistant. That's where you come in. I've gathered all the evidence, and now we just need to find who did it, and then-" He was interrupted again as I shoved his fork, full of food, into his open mouth. I smirked evilly in his direction as he sighed and ate it, taking the fork in his hand and swallowing.

"You bastard," Sherlock said. "You're not one to give up, are you?"

"I am most certainly not," I said.

After a short while, Sherlock Holmes began to laugh. I chuckled a bit and pushed my plate closer to him.

"Alright," he said. "I will eat at least once a day if you agree to be my partner."

"Okay," I said. "Deal."

He took another small, cautious bite as I started really processing what he had just told me. I was to be his partner in anti-crime. I was to be his sidekick. How dangerous was this? How many cases had he solved before? Was he sure he was right?

"So," Sherlock said. "You've had many major events in your life, from moving to divorces to deaths and such."

"Yes," I said. "I have."

"Been under a lot of stress, then?" he asked as he took another bite, finishing off what was left on the plate.

"Yes," I replied. "A lot. Very hard to handle at times."

His gaze grew intense, and he smirked. "Are you ready to acquire some more?"

"Oh, God, yes," I said eagerly, barely even thinking before the sentence escaped my lips.

Sherlock smiled. "Good," he said, standing up quickly. He pointed out the window. "We'd better go quickly, though, because there it goes!"

I turned and looked outside. "Sorry?" I asked. "What is it?"

"The head chef is done with her shift," he replied. "She's leaving. We need to follow her."

"Why her?"

"The menus were changed a week before the murders. It happens every season. On the main course section, there's a meal that they call a 'killer steak.'"

I furrowed my brow. "So?"

"The description of it is as follows: 'The only steak one would put with the word power. This meal doesn't help you come back home clean!'"

I threw my arms up in the air. "So?!"

"John, you moron, it's a skip code," Sherlock said. "Skip every two words and it says 'The one with power doesn't come clean.'"

"Well, maybe it's just a coincidence," I said. "And it could mean anyone of power, not necessarily the head chef."

"The head chef here writes the menus," Sherlock sighed. "Just trust me on this."

I thought for a moment. Should I?

But before I could decide on an answer, Sherlock had firmly gripped my arm and practically dragged me out the back door, starting to run in an effort to catch up with the chef. Indignantly, I began running as well, cursing my legs for being so short as I tried my best to catch up.

The chef stepped into a taxi, and it took off at an effortlessly quick pace. We could never catch it.

Or so I thought. Sherlock ran across the street and into an alley, and I followed suit in a clumsy and confused fashion.

"Think," he muttered to himself. "Just think."

He slowed down a bit, and I caught up to him. He started off again through another alley and down a few more streets until he darted back, grabbed my hand and threw the both of us out into the street. I was startled by a blinding light and a deafening screech, and I opened my eyes to see a taxi stopped just a few centimetres from where we stood.

Panting, I tried my best to catch my breath. For a fleeting moment, I thought that it was probably not a good idea to work on cases with him if he was planning on hurling me in front of taxis all the time, but I let the thought be as Sherlock opened the back door of the taxi and pulled me inside of it along with him.

The chef sat next to us, startled and unsure.

"We're with her," Sherlock told the cabbie, who began driving again.

The chef instantly understood the meaning behind the sentence, nodding and crossing her arms in front of her.

We pulled up a few minutes later to what we understood was her flat and followed her inside.

"Don't bother talking," she said. "I know what you're here for."

Sherlock nodded. "That's really quite convenient, actually."

I felt my heartbeat quicken as she rummaged deep inside the drawers across the room.

"Oh yes," she said. "How rude of me. You two can take a seat."


	6. № 6

Sherlock and I sat next to each other at the chef's table as she took a small ziplock bag out of the dresser drawer and brought it over our way. Her hood still over her head, it was hard to see her face. I thought I did recognise her voice, however.

"If I show you these," she said, "you need to promise me never to report me. I'm not the one who does the murders. I simply perform the memory erasing."

Sherlock nodded. "I'll just delete you from my memory, then. John will just have to keep a secret."

The chef opened the bag and spilled a handful of rounded black pills onto the tabletop. She put a few in Sherlock's hand, and he examined them eagerly.

"They're small so they don't do too much damage," she explained. "They release chemicals that erase anything that has to do with sexual or romantic love from the brain. This means that people will forget the people who they've kissed or hooked up with, or even had feelings for, forever. Even rape victims forget the whole thing. Don't worry, though; they can still make and keep romantic memories in the future, but we kill them first."

"Comforting," I muttered. The chef took the bag and put it back in the drawer, and Sherlock pocketed the pills that he still had in his hand, probably for examination.

"Do these dissolve quickly?" Sherlock asked, looking closely at one that was left on the table.

The chef laughed a little. "Why don't you experiment with one a bit? The toilet's down the hall to the right. Don't bother being frugal, either; I've got thousands."

Sherlock excitedly took a handful of the little pills to the washbasin down the hall, and the chef turned and sat down next to me.

"Do you recognise me?" she asked.

I cleared my throat. "Um, yes," I said. "Yes, I think so. I believe I do."

"I knew you would, John," she said. "Well, I'll give you a little hint, yeah?"

"Okay," I said hesitantly.

"Your little bird is doing just marvellously."

I inhaled sharply as she let her hood fall from the top of her head to reveal the face of the girl from the animal sanctuary.

"My name is Mary," she said.

"John," I replied.

She giggled. "Well, I knew that, of course."

I smiled unsurely as she scanned me up and down. My finger tapped against the wooden table as I desperately waited to leave. How long did it take to dissolve a tiny pill? A minute? A few?

I was startled as Mary's hand touched the side of my face, turning my head to face her.

"Are you a bargainer?" she asked.

"Sorry?"

"Are you willing to make a little trade?"

I shifted in my seat. "Depending on what it is," I replied.

"You aren't going to want to refuse this one, John," she said menacingly, lifting up her shirt to show me a gun tucked under her skirt. I gasped a bit, my eyes wide, my heart beginning to race again. She had a gun. How? Why?

Was it the gun that had been used to kill the victims? To shoot my shoulder?

"Look," Mary said, "I could kill you both in a matter of seconds if I think for one moment that I'll be revealed to the coppers. Neither of us want that, do we?"

I shook my head. "No."

"Good!" Mary giggled enthusiastically, leaning against the table. "So, I'll spare your lives if you do two little things for me."

I breathed. "Okay."

"Number one," she said. "Don't tell Sherlock about anything that happened while he was playing with the little pills. And two," she said, leaning in my direction.

"Kiss me."

I really didn't want to. "Is there anything I could do instead?"

"Oh, you really are the bargainer, aren't you?" Mary said into my ear. "You could spend a night with me instead, but I don't think you're willing to go that far for the next twenty years or so."

"Twenty-"

"No questions," she said. "What do you say?"

I entered a state of panic as I felt her lips press against mine and her tongue try to force its way into my mouth. I didn't want this. But it was better than death, I supposed, so I let her have her fun for a few more moments before standing up and calling Sherlock into the room. It was time to go.

Mary mouthed the words 'thank you, sweet' in my direction as Sherlock and I left her flat and took a taxi back to our street. She was sick, that girl. Very, very sick.

"Hey, John," Sherlock said as we got out of the taxi. "Do you want to walk some?"

I nodded. "Sure."

We walked down the street and to a nearby park, where we ended up sitting together on a bench by a trail, overlooking a small pond.

I sighed. "That girl was insane."

"I heard about half of what happened," Sherlock said. "Are you alright?"

I sighed. "I have no idea."

My parents would have never asked if I was okay if they witnessed something like that. They would have given me a firm pat on the shoulder and congratulated me for getting a girlfriend. I didn't really notice how nice it was for someone to care until it actually happened.

"Are you still going to be my crime-solving helper?" he asked.

I nodded. "You'd better uphold to your promise about eating, then. You need food."

"I will stay true to it."

I smiled. "Good."

"Here's a good question: What happens if I don't?" Sherlock asked.

I chuckled. "Then you will receive the wrath of John Watson."

He laughed and pretended to be scared. "What does that look like?"

"Like this!" I said, pushing him off the bench and into a pile of leaves. He reached up, grabbed me by the foot and pulled me with him, running off as I tried to get revenge. Laughing, he slipped on a twig as I bolted towards him, tackling him to the ground and laying down on my back. I winced as my shoulder hit the ground a bit too hard, but I breathed through the pain and thanked heavens that I had remembered to take my pain medication.

Sherlock laughed. "I don't think I've ever taken a beating from a short boy before," he said, "And I'm genuinely scared of getting one again."

I smirked. "Yeah, yeah," I admitted. "I'm short."

"Yet your superpowers are densely packed," Sherlock added.

I sort of giggled as we both lay down on our backs, looking up at the sky. I felt a twinge of newfound affection for my new - What was it called? Ah, yes: roomie - and I smiled as I stared up at the pink sky.

But I sat up suddenly, a reminder hitting me like a brick to the stomach. I was not gay. I could not be gay. I had promised my mum already, and it would hurt everyone if I broke such an important vow.

I stood up. "I have to get home," I said. "My parents are probably worrying. And my shoulder hurts." At least the last sentence wasn't a lie.

Sherlock nodded kind of sadly, keeping his eyes on the sky above. "See you later, John."

"Yeah," I said. "See you."

I was not gay. I could not be gay. I should not be gay.

The sentences played in a loop in my head as I jogged home, wondering the whole time if my parents even were fretting about where I was, after all.


	7. № 7

I thought a lot about Mary.

Not in the way that one would think. I thought about what happened and I was confused. Because kissing wasn't supposed to turn people off, but that's what it did to me. And that made no sense whatsoever. Because when people play kissing games at parties or kiss people because of a dare or a challenge, the other person rarely ever cares that someone kissed them out of the blue.

So why didn't I like it?

I had always imagined my first kiss being magical, like fireworks or shooting stars or old-fashioned romance movies. But this wasn't, and I couldn't understand why not. And I was frustrated that it wasn't. My first kiss, down the drain. Whoosh. There it went, and all for nothing.

Men were supposed to like being kissed by pretty girls. Not that she was extremely pretty in the first place, but I had read that the average male likes any romantic contact as it's how their brains are wired with the testosterone and such.

What was I feeling?

My mind kept wandering back to Sherlock no matter how hard I tried to distract myself. Was he really gay? Was it possible for homosexuality to be contagious, after all? No, because I wasn't gay. I was not feeling gay. Right? What did gay even feel like?

What had I gotten myself into?

Solving crimes instead of calling the police, running off and avoiding my family, ending up making out with a serial killer's undercover assistant. These things were dangerous. Everything about this was dangerous, which brought me back to my previous question.

What does gay feel like?

I had to act cool. I needed to keep it casual and together and nonchalant. And I needed to get an answer for my question.

"Harry?" I asked, knocking softly on her door.

She opened it just a crack, peeking through it at me. "What do you need?"

I sighed. "I have a question."

She nodded. "What is it?"

"A private question," I whispered through my teeth, "That neither of us want Mum or Dad to overhear."

She narrowed her eyes and hesitantly let me inside her room, closing the door behind me and sitting cross-legged on the floor. I sat down as well, and she looked at me expectantly.

"Well?"

I pursed my lips. "I um..." I sighed, trying to get over my bloody stupid anxiety and just ask. They were just words, no different from the others I had spoken for the last near-nineteen years of my life.

Harry sighed. "I haven't got all year, you know."

"Okay," I said. "I'm just... What..." I paused again, biting my lip and furrowing my brow. "What does it feel like... to be gay?"

She tensed up suddenly. "Why do you ask?" she demanded defensively.

I shrunk back. "I know about your girlfriend, Harry. And I need to know what it's like so that I can be sure-"

"I don't have a girlfriend," Harry growled.

"No, Harry, that's not what I'm asking-"

"I think, John," she said, "That it's a good time to leave my room."

"Okay," I said, standing up. "I just... I'm sorry. I love you no matter what, and I accept-"

"Out."

She pointed at the door with a weakly extended finger, and I could see her breath shake as she inhaled, her eyes closed.

"Ask someone else."

She flashed me her first two fingers as I left, the obscene gesture making me wince a bit as I latched the door behind me. Wrong timing. Wrong approach.

Ask someone else.

But who? Who could I ask? Who would be open and not judgemental and experienced? In short, who was safe?

☯

I knocked three times on the door, my nose cold and red as I waited.

"Hello, John." Sherlock said as he opened the door, his voice more confident than I felt by far.

"Sherlock, I have a question for you to help me with." I said.

"Oh," he said. "Alright."

"Shall we walk?" I asked. He tilted his head for a moment as if in consideration, and then grabbed his coat and scarf from behind the door, slipping his gloves onto his pale and skinny hands. He stepped out into the crisp air, his classy shoes hitting the pavement with a small scraping noise as we began walking down the street.

"So," he asked, "What was your question?"

I looked down at my feet. "I just... I'm curious about myself, sexually. Wait. No. Delete that from your mind. That's not what I mean."

I found myself extremely flustered, staring down at my shoes in embarrassment.

"What I mean is, I want to know what it means... I mean, I know what it means and what it is, but not how it works. No. That sounded bad as well."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at me. "If you gave me some context, it would sound a lot less inappropriate."

I sighed and closed my eyes in frustration, flinging my head back and facing the sky. "What does it feel like to be gay?"

He was quiet for a moment. I could almost hear the gears in his mind turning. I could almost smell the oil.

"Well, I would suppose it feels normal," he replied slowly. "As far as attraction goes. One would say it's the same as any sort of romantic love, just a different sex, of course."

"Sherlock," I said, "Can you answer me something? Can we have a sort of man-to-man discussion?"

He nodded. "Sure."

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out for a few moments. Finally, I blurted out, "What are you?"

He tilted his head. "I'm not sure," he said. "I haven't really thought about it before. Labelling yourself is pointless. We'll all end up dead, after all."

"But," I said, "How do I know what I am?"

He shrugged. "Figure out who you love, I suppose," he said. "But, when it comes down to it, I have a hunch that we're all just human."

I liked that.

"Even you?" I asked.

He smiled. "No," he replied. "Even you."

I laughed. "So you wouldn't care if I figured out I was-"

"John, calm down," Sherlock said. "It doesn't matter to me, just how it doesn't matter to you. It's all fine."

I nodded. "Okay."

Figure out who you love, I suppose.

Who did I love? Even better put, who was I attracted to?

Rubbing my shoulder and realising that I had forgotten my pain medication this morning, I looked up at Sherlock, who was lost in his mind again. I looked at his hair. His eyes. His nose and his cheekbones. His chin and his lips. The way his coat fit around his waist. How nice and clean-cut he appeared wearing all black. The sound of his voice and the opinions he had on life. His talent. His intellect.

And then I knew.

Everything snapped into place.

I stared down at the ground again, my cheeks growing hot as I realised I may have been the tiniest bit attracted to Sherlock Holmes.

☯

"Mum?" I asked.

"Yes?"

"Just in case," I said, "May I have some of those pills for staying straight?"

"Of course," she said. "Good thinking, John." She handed me a small box that she had purchased about ten years ago. I smiled insecurely and brought them downstairs to my room, wondering if I really needed them, or if my mind was playing tricks on me.

Either way, I knew I could not be gay. I wouldn't allow it.

I was not, and I would never be gay.

Especially for Sherlock Holmes.


	8. № 8

I studied the pill in my hand.

My logical mind knew it wouldn't work, but the tiny voice in the back thought it would. That there was a chance. That maybe, just maybe, it could stop me from being whatever I was and make me, well, normal. That's what Mum would want.

I sat back against the wall and closed my eyes. Everything felt surreal, as if I were dreaming. I was living in a completely new place across the street from my soon-to-be flatmate, and I had just begun to acquire potential feelings for him. I started to question if I was even alive or just living some dream. Maybe this was what the afterlife was like. But I couldn't remember dying, so I came back to reality and began thinking logically.

These wouldn't work, the pills. Not at all. So I tossed them carelessly into the next room, hearing them hit the floor with a thump and a rattle and then become silent. I inhaled sharply as I moved my shoulder too quickly. I ought to have remembered to take it easy. It wasn't difficult to forget not to move a part of your body when you've been doing it your whole life. It was hard to adapt to change.

Why me?

Why did I have to feel this way? Why couldn't I just fall in love with a girl? I wished I was different, yet I still liked what I felt.

What was wrong with me?

Staring out the window, I observed as leaves fell from the trees around the house and slowly drift back and forth until they touched the ground. I tucked my knees to my chest and hugged my legs with my arms, slowly rocking back and forth as I let myself think.

I hadn't seen Sherlock since two days ago.

I hoped he wasn't worried. I had spent time with him every day until now. Maybe he thought I was sick of him. I didn't want him to think that. I definitely was not sick of him. I really liked being with him. I liked it a lot. Did he know? I hoped so. He was clever; he could figure it out. I so liked him, being in his presence, hearing him talk.

I had promised to be his partner. I knew I had to keep that promise. He was so easily broken.

Carefully picking up the pills from the floor to put them away, I read the back label out of curiosity.

"These worked a dream for my daughter! Two days of taking them and she had completely forgotten her feelings for her girlfriend. In fact, she claimed she had forgotten her entirely!"

-Patti H. from Westminster

Coughing suddenly in surprise, I jumped to my feet and stuffed the bottle in my pocket, running up the stairs and slipping my trainers on.

"Mum," I called, "I'm going out!"

"Alright!" she replied, not giving me any indications of when she wanted me back. But that was who she was.

I had been accepted for the job at the hospital, but she had made me decline because of the shooting to my shoulder I had received a good five minutes away from it. Not that I had wanted to work there in the first place. She was just being too indecisive.

Pulling a winter hat over my head, I leapt out the door and across the street, knocking and waiting to be let inside.

"Oh, hello, John," Sherlock's mother said. "Come in."

I thanked her and stepped inside, taking off my shoes and hat. "Where is he?" I asked.

She pointed up the stairs. "Down the hall to the right is his room," she said. "If he doesn't answer when you knock, let yourself in. He's most likely just thinking."

I nodded as I quickly ascended the flight of stairs to the first floor of their home, following his mum's direction and knocking on Sherlock's dented and chipped door.

"What is it?" he asked irritably from inside.

"It's John," I said. "May I come in?"

"Oh, John," he replied, his voice immediately softer. "Of course. Let yourself in."

I opened the door and stepped inside. He had a rather large room, full of multiple tables of science equipment and a small refrigerator in the corner. It was all surprisingly clean and tidy, and I watched as he glanced in my direction from where he was sitting in front of a microscope.

"Hello," he said, his voice deep and almost surprised.

"Hi," I said, sitting in a chair across from his.

He jotted a few notes down on a sheet of paper, keeping his eyes mostly on his work except for the occasional glance my way. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Oh?" I asked. "Why not?"

"People tend to ghost me after a few days of knowing me, so when you stopped coming over for two days in a row, I thought that was it." He changed the microscope slide and prepared a new one.

I nodded. "Well, I'm not like them, I suppose," I said.

He watched me for a moment before turning back to the experiment. "So I've observed."

I sat, focusing on my own thoughts for a moment before breaking the silence and taking out the pill bottle. "I thought you'd like this," I said. I pointed to the part of the label that I had read. "Same side effect as the little black pill from Mary."

Sherlock took it in his hand. "You didn't take any, did you?" he asked. "But you were thinking about it." He cast his eyes over my suddenly irritated face, and I gritted my teeth in hopes that he wouldn't keep knowing things.

I sighed. "Just read the label."

"A shame, too, that," he said. "You could have forgotten Mary."

I glowered a bit at him. He didn't understand. If I had taken one, there would be a chance of me forgetting him, and there was no way that I would let that happen. I was his only friend, and I wouldn't let him lose me. "Well, um," I said, "I think it's good that I remember Mary, so that we both know to stay away from her."

He nodded. "Fair point." He took a pill out from the bottle and crushed it with a plastic slide, putting a few particles on a slide in a drop of water and placing it under the microscope.

"Tell me, John," he said. "What has happened in the past few days that you haven't told me about?"

At first I was scared. Initially, I thought he was talking about what I realised about my emotions. But then I remembered that he wasn't good at knowing about emotions, so I knew that wasn't the case. And then I felt a pang of guilt and hesitantly answered the question. "I've been writing more," I said. "In my journal."

"Mm," he said. "And what sorts of things have you written about recently?"

I shifted in my seat. "To tell you the truth, you've been showing up in it a lot lately. I'm starting to think you're the main character!" I laughed it off nervously, trying not to be too obvious and trying not to lie.

He glanced up at me again. "Is that so?"

"Yes," I replied. "Because you're exciting, compared to my family. You add a special quality to my life that nobody else does, or ever has..." I trailed off as I slowly realised I had begun to ramble, so I stopped and stared at my hands.

Sherlock looked straight at his microscope. "Thank you," he said. "That means more than you would think it did."

I smiled awkwardly, flustered as I couldn't think of things to say. So I didn't say anything. I just watched.

And I think his eyes lit up just the smallest bit when I did, so I decided not to stop. I liked watching him, anyway.


	9. № 9

"I've found it," Sherlock said, standing up and taking the pill bottle from the table and laying it next to the pills from Mary. "They both contain an acidic chemical that degenerates some of the romantic and memory-related parts of the brain. The reason people can make and keep romantic memories later is due to the intrusion being too small to cause permanent damage. The sexualities of the subjects will, however, stay the same." He scribbled some sloppy handwriting on a piece of loose leaf paper and dropped the pen carelessly on top of it.

I nodded and stood up as he did. "I've done some research on the internet as well," he said. "The sexuality pills from that specific brand have been shown to make the person forget about their romantic interest, only to have them find another one of the same gender anyway. So I doesn't make them heterosexual, but it does make them forget."

"That's..." I tried to find the right word, but I couldn't, so I asked, "Is that even legal?"

He shrugged. "I've absolutely no idea."

"Hmm," I said, looking at the floor. "It really shouldn't be."

"But that isn't the point," Sherlock said. "John, don't you feel... excited?"

I narrowed my eyes. "Excited?"

"Yes!" Sherlock replied. "A mass murder that's connected to your homosexual pills? An undercover ally for the killer that works part-time at an animal rescue?"

"They're not my pills," I said, but I was, of course, ignored.

"She even kissed you, for heaven's sake! And she's a chef! They let her use knives and mess with people's food all the time! What if she put a pill in one? That would be a messy date." He laughed dryly and picked up one of Mary's pills. "They dissolve quickly in water or heat, meaning they enter your system faster and work faster, quite possibly even staying in it longer in comparison to other chemicals."

I nodded. "That's not exciting," I said, "Just unsettling."

"Unsettlement is the best kind of excitement, John," Sherlock said enthusiastically, opening his bedroom door and the both of us walking out of it. "You just haven't figured that out yet."

We descended to the ground floor, Sherlock's shiny dress shoes almost clicking against the old, rich wooden stairs. "Mother," he called, "We're going out!"

"Have you eaten?" she called back from somewhere in another room.

Sherlock paused. "We'll eat on the way!" he answered, putting his coat on over his dress shirt and opening the front door. I slipped my sneakers on to my feet and pulled my hat over my ears, and we both stepped outside into the cold and nippy air.

"Chilly today," I said, and he gave a grunt of agreement and begun to walk with me in a different direction from which we went the last time around. He rested his hands in his pockets as we went down the street and toward an unknown destination.

"Do you think I'm unsociable?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

I shrugged. "You can be, yes," I said, "But I personally find you quite hospitable. And, at times, you can also be very polite and docile." I paused, my brain working out exactly what he was trying to say. "Who told you that you were unsociable?" I asked.

Sherlock sighed. "Sally Donovan."

I looked up at him. "Who on earth is Sally Donovan?"

He kicked an acorn on the ground and watched it bounce and roll into the street. "She's working with Lestrade. She thinks I'm irritating. I just think she's extra irritable."

I nodded. "Don't listen to her," I said. "If she doesn't like you, that's her loss."

Sherlock nodded unsurely, pursing his lips and staring off into the distance. "But I'm not normal," he said. "Normal people like normal people. That's why you have so many friends and I only have one."

I stopped walking and grabbed his arm, turning him to face me. "Listen to me, Sherlock," I said. "I don't give a damn if you're like most people or not. I would rather have you as my only friend than have a million completely generic ones. You underestimate yourself too much and you need to stop. Think of yourself as more than you already do. Because I definitely value you more than you might yourself. Alright?"

His eyes widened, almost as if he'd been attacked. He even drew back a bit, startled, perhaps, his mouth slightly open in confused and terrified surprise.

He nodded slowly. "Okay."

We began walking again, and he led the two of us into a new restaurant across the street. He apparently got free food here as well, for some kind of case he'd solved where he found a serious risk that the place would have been shut down for and had them fix it before they were found out. Or something like that. Some asbestos problem of some sort.

"Do you get free food everywhere you go?" I asked, and he took his scarf off as we were seated.

"I'm not sure," he said. "I barely ever leave the house, so it's hard to remember."

"Oh," I said. "I see."

We discussed music that day. Turned out he liked 80s Rock more than classical, which surprised me since classical seemed like more of a thinking sort of genre, whilst I always thought rock was an intense, active one. And Lord knows that Sherlock Holmes was anything but active.

I told him I liked jazz, and he nodded in interest. He said he especially liked the sound of the bass guitar, and he even began learning it as a young child.

"That's interesting," I said. "One of my childhood friends used to take bass lessons. We used to play pirates, or at least that's what Harry said. I lost that memory with my shoulder."

"Hm," he said. "That's quite common, the pirate phase in children. Fascinating because I used to play pirates with a friend as well," he ran his fingers along the condensation on his water glass. "But his name wasn't John."

"What was it, then?" I asked.

"I actually don't remember."

"Oh, really?" I replied playfully, chuckling as I leant forward and whispered, "Then how do you know it wasn't me?"

Sherlock laughed softly. "You never know, I suppose," he said.

"Mm," I agreed lightly. "You really don't."


	10. № 1Ø

I was slowly going insane.

Here I was, sitting in front of an attractive boy at a candlelit table and eating food, talking about life and having a good time. I had to keep reminding myself not to be gay. What would Dad do if he... knew? He was drunk all the time, so he was unpredictable. Would he attack me? Would he let it go? Or would he just sit there, not even processing the words? I'm sure Mum wouldn't be pleased. She would start crying and telling me I'm going to Hell. I'd cause the both of them too much pain. Therefore, I could not be gay.

I'm not gay. I'm not gay. I'm not gay.

But I kept contradicting myself. It seemed that the more time I spent with Sherlock, the more enticing he became. It was like my hands were slipping off of the controls of my brain, and I watched it happen because I couldn't lift my hands back up again.

I am not gay.

I stared down at my food in my own thoughts as Sherlock ate. I was glad I got him to eat. I could see he was already less bony and scrawny than he had been before, though his cheekbones were definitely still there. Those cheekbones, dammit. I would be a bit more sane if they weren't ever there.

"So," Sherlock said, snapping me out of my trance. "Do you have an opinion on rain?"

I cleared my throat. "I, um," I said, collecting my thoughts in an effort to piece them together. What had he asked? Something about rain. Rain... he wanted my opinion on it. Did I like rain? Yes. Say that. "I rather like the rain, yes."

"Good." Sherlock replied.

"Why do you ask?" I enquired of him. "What brings it up?"

"Well, it's raining. I thought you would have noticed," he replied. "There's been thunder this whole time."

What colour were his eyes? It was hard to tell. They looked green sometimes, and blue other times. Why couldn't I differentiate between the two? Were his eyes more of a mint or a sea green? Or were they a whole new colour altogether? They say you can never imagine a new colour until you see it, and never in my life had I had the capability of imagining his eyes.

But I wasn't gay. I could not be gay, absolutely not.

I'm not gay. I am not gay.

His eyes locked with mine as I studied them, noticing a brown fleck in one of them and gradients between blue and green. He blinked, his dark lashes dancing in my gaze, the candlelight illuminating off the ends. It was hard to tell the colour since his pupils were dilated a bit more than usual, most likely due to the lighting in the room being so dark. I still tried to figure it out, wishing I knew how.

Suddenly noticing his mouth moving, I snapped back and rapidly shook my head to clear it. Remember, John. Not. Gay.

"Sorry?" I asked. "I didn't catch that. I wasn't listening. I apologise."

"Well, you've been a lovely audience," Sherlock remarked. "I asked if you were doing alright. You look a bit unwell."

I took a sip of water to cool down. "I'm... fine," I said. "I just need to... I need to stop thinking, that's all." I am not gay. I am not gay. I. Am. Not. Gay.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "You look like you're about to pass out. Are you feeling faint?"

Was I? I hadn't a clue. I wasn't paying attention to my body. I just knew that I couldn't be gay. I'd get in trouble. It wasn't an option. But it was. Yet it still couldn't be.

"John."

My dad would hit me on a good day. My mum would disown me on a bad one. God knows what Harry would do. I wanted to be who I was, but the price was too great a cost. I could not be. I should not be.

"John, I want you to focus on your breathing."

My head was beginning to feel tingly. Sherlock had said something. What did he say? What did it mean?

"Is everything alright, you two?"

"He's having a panic attack."

I could barely hear. My ears picked up the noise, but my brain couldn't decipher it. My limbs were all loose and floppy, and it was hard to move. Black spots clouded my vision, enveloping the world in front of me. I felt strong hands guiding me to the floor and gently holding my head as someone else lifted my feet up onto my chair.

And, all of a sudden, we were in the rain.

"Oh, hello, John," Sherlock smiled down at me. "You've just fainted."

"Oh," I said. What a weird feeling that had been. I had never fainted before. "What happened?"

"You started hyperventilating," he replied. "I gave you instructions, but you wouldn't absorb them."

I tried to sit up, but he pushed me back down, so I followed his gentle and somehow docile orders.

"How long was I out?" I asked. "And why are we in the rain?"

"You were asleep for about ten minutes," he said. "The restaurant was closing, so I brought you outside. I think the rain cooled you down. I also took off your coat, if that's alright."

"How odd," I said. "Time passed in a second! I didn't even dream! There was just... Nothing! I didn't even hear anyone or see anything..."

"You were basically half-dead."

I was baffled at the idea of time passing and me not knowing about it. If it really was what death felt like, then it wasn't that scary at all. It was just nothing. A very peaceful nothing, mind you. If there wasn't an afterlife, that specific kind of nothing would be my next choice.

"You were thinking about something stressful that triggered it," Sherlock said, as I realised that I didn't remember anything after the point where he told me I looked unwell. I tried to regain my memories. What if I had dreamt and forgotten it?

"Have you ever passed out before?" I asked.

"Due to malnutrition, yes," he replied. "And I know from many instances of experience that you won't want to stand up just yet."

I nodded. "Alright."

"As I was saying," Sherlock continued, "Whatever you were thinking about, you need to avoid that thought from now on."

Still loopy and half-unconscious, I blurted out, "I was telling myself not to be gay."

He looked down at me for a while. He pursed his lips, sighed, and said, "Well, then you need to forget it."

Forget it, John, I told myself now. Forget it.


	11. № 11

The trouble with influence is that people with too much of it have an overabundance of power. If you have so much control over someone, you practically make their choices for them. Then, things could either turn out well or terribly wrong, and either way, you'd be responsible. The pressure and guilt would be too much to handle for the average person.

But not for Sherlock Holmes.

Forget it, he had told me. Forget it.

What would happen if I forgot not to be gay? What would happen between us? What would my parents think? What would happen to me? Those things weren't on his mind, of course. His only thought behind it was that I shouldn't be making myself pass out all the time. Which was fair, but closed-minded, which was something I was almost surprised he could be.

"We're back, Mum," I called. She didn't reply, so Sherlock and I went downstairs into my makeshift bedroom and sat on the floor, which I had cushioned with blankets and pillows to prevent it from being so rough and cold. Sherlock sat, cross-legged, in front of me, and I sat with my legs tucked under my knees. We said nothing for a very long time.

I shifted uncomfortably in my position on the floor, glancing around the room as I felt his heavy and intense gaze on me. Did I mind him looking? I wouldn't say so. I just felt awkward, that's all. Awkward because I was never one for eye contact.

In my peripheral vision, I watched him furrow his brow and bring his hands up to his face in a prayer-like thinking position, finally closing his eyes and breaking the tie between his eyes and myself. I leant my spine against the wall and sat with my legs out in front of me in a more comfortable position than before, and I felt it was my turn to watch.

His hair was thick and messy, dropping over his forehead and curling up at the ends. He took deep, mindful breaths as he sat there, thinking whatever he did when he was busy like this. I scanned his face all over again, wanting to memorise it for some peculiar reason that I couldn't quite point out. This wasn't usually a need of mine, but it was now. So I did. I tried to learn all the curves and edges of his face and his expressions, and I worked toward remembering the texture of everything as well.

Everything about him was soft. His skin and complexion, his hair and the way it flowed messily about whilst still framing his face surprisingly well, the crinkle of skin between his eyebrows when he was in deep thought. I didn't want to forget these things.

His eyes snapped open suddenly, catching me in the act of looking. I didn't move my eyes, and I felt my face flush a bit in either shame or embarrassment; I wasn't sure which. Sherlock stared intensely back, blinking every now and then, focusing his view on me and locking it there just as I had my own.

"John," he said, his voice quiet but powerful.

I fiddled with the sleeve of my shirt. "Yes?"

"I want you to do something for me."

I swallowed, a bit unsure. "Alright," I said after a moment of contemplation, awaiting the task.

Sherlock grabbed a book from the floor and held it up next to his face. "Look at this," he said, "and... Tell me what you see."

"Okay, um," I studied the book and moved my legs so I was sitting comfortably. "I see a nice design, compressed into the cover and inked in."

"Right," he said. "Now look back at me."

I found this suddenly odd. I obeyed, however, looking back into his hard, piercing stare. He nodded. "Now back at the book."

I stared at the book again for a short moment until he laid it back down on the floor.

"Fascinating," he said.

I looked back at him. "What is it?"

"Oh, nothing you'd find interesting," Sherlock replied, standing up and opening the window, the cold breeze and a few leaves blowing inside. "Not in the least."

"Oh." I reached for my pen, slowly clicking it as quietly as possible, open and shut, over and over. I found it so odd how Sherlock was able to find things to do with his mind, while I always had to find something to do physically. It bugged me a bit how attentive he was to everything, and so content at the same time. Everything was matter-of-fact with him; no worries, no pain, no guilt. I actually quite envied it. I thought it would be nice to be different in the sense that he was.

I laid down on my back and looked up at the ceiling, letting my friend think as I studied the texture of the old wooden planks above. They were dark brown and sad, giving a rustic touch to the room. I didn't mind it, actually. I liked my room, even though Harry's was far better.

There was a knock on the door, and Mum walked in with a weary yet friendly smile on her face. "I made dinner," she said. "Sherlock, would you like to stay?"

"Oh," he said, turning around in slight surprise. "Sure, thank you."

Mum walked back upstairs. "It'll be ready in a few minutes!" she called before reaching the ground floor again, her footsteps slowly fading off.

"So," I said, "What's on your mind?"

Sherlock stared out the window. "I've never been asked to stay for dinner before."

I didn't know how to reply to that. Usually I would laugh in situations such as these, but I knew the given circumstances wouldn't fit that decision. So I stayed silent, hoping he would say something that was easy to respond to.

"Are we going to tell her you passed out?" he asked, and I shook my head immediately.

"Absolutely not," I said. "Because then she'll ask why. I can't tell her why."

Sherlock pushed away a makeshift drape that was hanging loosely by thumbtacks over my window. "You could always lie."

"Well, if lying is an option," I said, "then we could just avoid the situation altogether, don't you think?"

My friend pursed his lips and shook his head. "I think she should know not to let you over-exert yourself anytime soon and let you have proper rest."

"But... Why?" I asked. "I feel fine."

He furrowed his brow and looked back out the window. "I have a feeling you aren't thinking... straight."

I laughed a bit. "How do you mean?"

"Your pupils," he said. "They keep dilating. I know it's not from a concussion; I caught you when you fell."

I was confused. He was looking at me as if I knew what was going on. Crossing my arms, I asked, "What the bloody hell is that s'posed to mean?"

He said nothing for a long while, staring silently out the window until he replied, "If they should dilate, it would only make sense that it wouldn't be for me."

I sighed. "I am so lost in this conversation. I'll be upstairs."

I turned to leave, but Sherlock caught me by the wrist and held it tightly, looking down at me as I let go of the door handle.

"John," he said.

I swallowed, my breathing uneven. "Yes?"

He opened his mouth slightly, then closed it, and opened it again. He took a breath and hesitantly said:

"Sherlock is actually a girl's name."

I stood there for a moment, looking up at him in shock. And then I laughed. Because I knew it wasn't true. And I had absolutely no idea why he chose to say it.

"No, it's not," I said, and he smiled defeatedly.

"I suppose it isn't."

He let go of my wrist and followed me upstairs, a few extra steps behind me as we made our way to the kitchen, where Mum and Harry were waiting for us.

I sat down next to Sherlock. "Where's Dad?" I asked.

Mum shrugged and tried to put on a carefree face. "Oh, you never know with him. Probably... getting groceries, or..."

"Wandering the streets plastered," Harry piped up, glaring at everyone from behind her thick mop of curly hair.

Mum sighed. "We can give him the benefit of the doubt," she said, forcing a smile. "Sherlock, do you like stew?"

"Yes, thank you," he replied, though we all knew it wasn't true. My mum handed him a bowl anyway, and he ate a few bites out of consideration.

Harry sat back against her chair with a thud. "They're opening up a new trail in the woods," she said.

"So I gathered," Sherlock replied, appearing to try his best not to roll his eyes.

Harry leaned forward again. "I hear it's very pretty... and quiet... and private."

He nodded. "That's what I've been told."

Harry narrowed her eyes at him. "You two should... check it out."

Mum clapped her hands together. "Oh, that would be lovely! Harry and I should visit it as well. We could go after we eat!"

Harry closed her eyes. "Actually," she said, "I was thinking of doing the dishes and letting you relax. John can take his new friend to see if it's really all that people say it is, how about that?" She cast a very meaningful look in my direction, and I looked away in embarrassment.

"Oh, you're too sweet," Mum smiled. "That sounds marvellous."

Sherlock and I eagerly stood up from the table and walked out the front entrance of the house, calling goodbyes and thank yous as we closed the door behind us and began heading in the direction of the woods.

Thank God for Harry Watson.


	12. № 12

Sherlock and I reached the new paved trail, leading elegantly into a bunch of land thickly populated with bright red and yellow trees. It was pleasantly and surprisingly warm, and I stuffed my hands into my pockets in contentment as the two of us walked into the pretty scene in front of us. Before Dad went bonkers, he used to paint a lot. His work was always so lovely, and it quite reminded me of this.

Sherlock glanced down at me from where he was standing, unmoving, staring at the picture in front of us. We began walking again, slower now, both wanting to take as much of it in as we could. Squirrels scurried about the trail, almost as excited about it as we were, their small paws hitting the fresh Tarmac as we approached. I breathed in the cool, satisfying air and slowly let it back out again, sighing out of tranquility and wishing to never forget this moment.

Returning back from my thoughts and into reality, I noticed Sherlock humming what sounded like an overrated Billy Joel song. I smiled suddenly, realising that he actually had a very nice voice and wasn't tone deaf like most people. My mum had always told me to marry a girl with a nice voice. I didn't know why she thought that, but it was true that finding out someone can sing makes them a good fifty percent more attractive. Which, of course, didn't make me gay. I wasn't gay.

I sighed. Forget it, I reminded myself. Forget it.

I had always read about it in books and seen it on television, never believing it existed, but, at that moment, I knew it was very real: I suddenly noticed that I was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

And not in a subtle way, either. My heart, along with my feet, stopped as I figured out that I had been attracted to him ever since we had met. And I, John Watson, had fallen in love with him. For him. Or whatever.

And I know that sounds naïve. It is naïve. But I had never felt just like this about anyone in my entire life before. Ever.

There was a slight predicament regarding this, however: I was almost one hundred percent sure that it wasn't mutual. Not like I expected it to be. Here I was, an average-looking, slightly chubby, short boy with an average personality, considering myself in love with a flawless and almost mythical creature. There was no way the feeling would ever be returned to me from him. Hell, I didn't even know if he was gay in the first place.

"John?" Sherlock asked, snapping me out of my thoughts. I turned to face him, feeling my face redden as I caught his eye.

"Yes?" I asked.

"Are you alright?" he asked, bending over to look me in the eye. "You stopped walking. Are you going to faint again? Are you overheating? You're all red."

I shook my head, looking at my feet. "I'm... fine," I said. "Let's just keep going."

So we did. A few isolated leaves were scattered carelessly across the blacktop like papers on a desk, and they crunched beneath my feet as I stepped on them.

Tell him, I told myself. He's a genius; he can probably tell anyway. Just say it. Awkwardness is inevitable anyway.

I swallowed as we reached a more hidden part of the woods. Taking a chance, I closed my eyes and took in a breath.

"Sherlock," I said, sitting down on a park bench. He turned his attention to me promptly, and sat down next to me out of politeness.

"Yes, John?" he asked.

I huffed out a nervous exhale. "I have something to tell you."

He nodded. "Alright."

"I want you to know," I said, "That I'm-"

I trailed off as Sherlock diverted his eyes suddenly away from mine, squinting as he watched something behind us. I turned my head in that direction.

"Can your 'something to tell me' wait a moment?" Sherlock asked, and I shrugged, knowing that I probably wouldn't have the courage later.

"Sure."

On the section of the path from whence we came, there was a masculine figure making its way toward us. I awaited its arrival as it steadily and suspiciously strolled towards us. Sherlock seemed to recognise it, somehow. As the person came closer, I realised that it was, in fact, another boy about our age. His eyes were bright, yet dead and disturbed, and he smiled dimly as he stopped in front of us.

Sherlock stood up. "Moriarty," he greeted him, not offering a handshake but a mere nod of the head.

"Oh, Jim, please," the new acquaintance laughed dryly, his thick Irish accent even apparent in the chuckle itself. "Moriarty sounds so evil." He rocked back on his heels and then back forward on his toes. I stayed sitting in the bench as he turned to face me.

"Oh, and what's this?" he asked, staring straight at me, his eyes quite like ones of a corpse. "This must be a new pet." He spat the word as if he were cussing. Pet.

I nodded and held out my hand. "John," I said. "I'm his friend."

Jim knelt down, ignoring my offer for a handshake. He raised his eyebrows in a cartoonish manner, resting his hands on his knees and pushing his face uncomfortably close to mine. "Oh, but Sherlock doesn't have friends, John. You must be something else. A colleague? A lover? A pet?" He stood straight up again, not breaking his eyes away from mine, the icy blue chilling my spine. "I think you're a pet. He likes having you around. I can tell." He giggled halfheartedly as he said it, the sound monotonous and dead and decomposed. I didn't like it.

Sherlock, who was facing the concrete floor beneath us, glanced up at him and scuffed his foot on the ground. Jim tucked his hands neatly into his pockets and smiled coldly at the two of us. "Good evening," he said, and walked away, his figure fading from view a lot faster than it had earlier appeared.

"Who was he?" I asked once he was out of sight.

Sherlock looked down at me, expressionless, and pressed his lips firmly together, making a small line of a mouth under his nose. "He's my arch-enemy."

I snorted. "That sounds extreme. I thought only superheroes had those."

"As do geniuses," Sherlock replied, and I sighed at him self-inflating his ego. "But the problem with it is that he thinks of me as a good friend. But I know I'm not. I can see the evil in his eyes. There's no life in his features at all. Ever." He snarled dramatically, his top lip drawing back and exposing his teeth.

"Much like your brother," I observed.

Sherlock turned to me. "Really?" he asked, furrowing his brow and squinting his eyes at me. "I had always thought it was quite like me."

I was taken aback for a moment. "Who ever told you that you look lifeless?"

He stayed quiet, puckering his lips the tiniest bit, as if he was trying his hardest to keep words from falling out of them. A shallow person would say he was being rude, but I thought he was just sad. Maybe it was because I knew him better than most people. Other people didn't put in the effort to get to know him. I didn't understand why.

I take that back. I knew exactly why people didn't like him. Because he was an arse. But beneath the arse was the heart. Which is a terrible analogy; I'm aware.

I stood up from the bench, looking at my feet. "I think you're one of the most alive, most... most awake people I've ever met in my life." I felt relief saying that, sort of huffing afterwards as if it was difficult to do so.

We began walking again, and, though I didn't get a response, I saw my friend smile sheepishly out of the corner of my eye.


	13. № 13

The sun had set by now.

It was dark, and we had made our way to the park where we had first met. It had been a bit of a walk, but we had made it there, and I suppose that was all that mattered. We sat next to each other, him on the left, spine straight, hands tucked together in his lap, and me on the right, legs curled up against my chest, leaning to the side.

"Fascinating," Sherlock observed, "How quickly things lead to others."

I looked over at him. "How do you mean?" I asked. Although, in my own way, I knew what it meant. I had only known him for a few days, and now I was willing to spend most of my daily life with him. In fact, I was more than eager to.

Sherlock shrugged, the pointed shoulders of his coat wrinkling as he did so. "You know, like how just some time ago I was hiding from my family, starving and killing my lungs with smoke and nicotine, and we merely had a conversation and all of a sudden you have a gunshot wound in your shoulder and we spend almost every day together."

I nodded. "Yes," I said. "That happens with people sometimes." I fiddled with the zipper of my coat and watched the silhouettes of leaves falling in front of us. It was fascinating, how quickly things were speeding up.

He looked down at his hands. "I, um," he said, his breath condensing in the air, making little dancing clouds, "I'm really glad it happened."

I smiled, feeling myself blush a bit again.

"So am I."

In the back of my head, there was a small hope that maybe, just maybe, the odds were in my favour. Perhaps he liked me - in that way - as well. But I brushed the thought aside, knowing it wasn't likely. Nobody I knew was gay. Nobody I had ever been interested in before ever had a crush on me. So why would he? Why was I so hopeful?

"Sherlock Holmes!" I heard a familiar voice call from over by the street. Someone was running up to us, and I smiled awkwardly, half-wishing we wouldn't have been interrupted so often by people that knew him. "Hey! I'm glad you're here..."

The girl slowed to a stop in front of my friend, and I instantly recognised her as the girl who had interviewed me. Maisy? Mavis? I knew it wasn't Mary.

"Ah," Sherlock said. "Hello, Molly."

That was it. Molly.

Her thin lips thinned out even more as she smiled at him. "Hi," she said. "I was going to call you using the phone book, but I found you here, so here I am!" She giggled nervously, her fuzzy pink gloves folded together. They reminded me of sea urchins. Or perhaps sun flares.

Sherlock wasn't amused in any way. "And the occasion?" he asked. "I'm talking to my friend right now. I mean, I was."

The girl didn't even pay attention to me at all. "Well," she said, pointing behind her shoulder with her thumb. "Just down the road, there's a pumpkin patch growing, and they're having an event this weekend..." She handed him a small slip of paper. "I was wondering if you wanted to go. With-"

"John?" Sherlock asked me. "Would you have any interest in a plot of land where they grow seasonal fruits that nobody cares about this weekend?" Which was rude, but I agreed wholeheartedly with his view on it.

Molly swallowed. "-me? I mean, I suppose you could bring him, too..."

My stomach felt like a rock. It was frustrating to watch someone so confidently break up an enjoyable conversation and then go further just to ask Sherlock on a date. She didn't even apologise for interrupting. I stared at her for a while, my mouth slightly open in a sarcastic smile. In her defence, however, she was very nervous. And I couldn't blame her for that.

I shrugged. "Sure."

Sherlock turned back to Molly. "We'll see you there."

Molly pointed to the paper. "At midday. You know. Noon." She giggled nervously and folded her arms in front of her.

Sherlock forced a smile. "Twelve," he said. "See you at twelve."

Molly nodded curtly and ran back near the road, where it looked like a bunch of friends were waiting for her. Sherlock stopped smiling suddenly and closed his eyes, sighing.

"I knew that would happen," he said. "I took her pulse when we shook hands at the interview. I do that to people a lot."

"You take pulses?" I asked. "Why-"

"Hers was significantly above average, and she hadn't been exerting herself, nor does she have any known heart problems or signs of them. So I therefore deduced that it was attraction."

I sat back against the chair, moving my legs so they were as close as possible to touching the ground. "Did you get an interview just to take her pulse?"

"Yes," he said. "And I left promptly afterwards."

So that would explain why I had received praise for not being weird when Molly interviewed me. Interesting.

I shifted in my seat. "So... how do you feel about her?"

Sherlock shrugged. "She's nice, kind, somewhat clever. I don't feel much, though. Not for her."

I still didn't feel at peace with his answer. I wanted to know what he thought about me. But I shouldn't ask that. It would be invasive. And blatantly obvious, and now was not the time to give myself away. He had just accepted an invitation to a date with a pretty girl.

"Who do you feel for?" I asked cautiously, watching his face and trying to figure out his emotions. He glanced at me for a moment, and then cleared his throat.

"I choose not to feel for anyone at all if and when I'm capable," he said. "I do highly appreciate you, my family, and Lestrade, however."

I nodded. "I appreciate you as well."

He gave me a small smile, his lips curving up into a tiny v shape. "Thank you."

I nodded, smiling a little at him. He was cute. I hated admitting it, but he had a cute face, and cute expressions, the kind that makes you melt a little inside every time you see it. And I liked him. And I was maybe gay.

"Well," Sherlock said, "I'm sure your mum will kill the both of us when she finds neither of us are home."

"Does that mean we should head back?" I asked, and he shook his head.

"Absolutely not."

"Good," I replied, giving him a quick, curt nod. "I was hoping that was the answer."

"Are you cold?" Sherlock asked suddenly. "Your nose is all red. Do you want your scarf back?"

I shook my head. "It's your scarf, not mine," I said. "I gave it to you."

I was cold, though, and I knew I was rubbish at hiding it. Sherlock scooted over so he was sitting next to me, and he awkwardly put his arm around my shoulder.

"To keep you warm." he explained.

I liked the feeling of leaning into him. I sort of wished it weren't because of the temperature. "Thanks."

"Of course, John."

Looking over at his face, I thought I may have seen a bit of pink on his cheeks that wasn't from the cold. But I couldn't be sure. Nonetheless, I leant my head on his shoulder and tried my best to stay warm, feeling his hand gently yet firmly clutch my shoulder as if it were the end of a cane.


	14. № 14

I was awakened a few weeks afterward by a loud knock on my door. I groggily opened my heavy eyes to see Mum standing in the doorway, streams of mascara running down her face along with a wide smile, which, in my opinion, made no sense at all.

But Mum wasn't one to make sense. Sometimes she'd ramble on and on about how messy everything was and then go and decide to take everything out of its place and throw it on the floor in a heaping pile because she wanted to "reorganise". She was impulsive, acting on her instincts. I had found her with a tiny bag of heroin once, and it took me all my strength to pry it out of her desperate fingers. So I knew her impulses weren't good ones.

"Mum?" I said, slowly sitting up. "What day is it? What's going on?"

She walked into my room. "Time for you to pack your boxes and leave the nest!"

Usually, I was able to handle Mum crying. When she was sad and blubbering about how much she missed her parents and how much she hated Dad's habit and how she didn't have the time or energy or money to get a divorce but still really wanted to because everyone knew very well that we'd never get the old Dad back, I was able to comfort her and not feel like cringing and hiding inside of my own shirt. But when I was the person she was crying about, especially if it was because I was "growing up", I couldn't bear it. It was demeaning, in a way. And awkward. And very, very unpleasant.

I wiped the sleep out of my eyes, not minding that she entered the room without even asking because I was moving out sometime soon anyway, and furrowed my brow and scoffed. "What's that s'posed to mean?"

She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand and sniffled a bit. "You're going to university tomorrow!"

Thank God. I'd been waiting for that to happen ever since she signed me up for that bloody stupid hospital job. "Oh, yeah. Tomorrow. Fun." I made a mental note to not sound too excited to leave my family for as long as I possibly could.

"Sherlock's brother has offered to drive you both," she bubbled. "He was so considerate! I couldn't say no."

I held back a scoff. Considerate. Not Mycroft. Nope. Luckily, however, I'd be able to arrive without being drowned in my mother's tears. She was even more emotional than usual because Harry decided never to get a degree, so at least one of the children of the house was being successful. Dad wouldn't care. Christ knows if he would even know what was going on at all.

"You could pack pictures," Mum said. "I have all these... all these photographs of you when you were... just a little boy..." Her face crumpled up as she began crying again. Her bottom lip curled over itself as she did, her hand reaching up and covering her eyes as she sobbed. I felt a pang of guilt, and then empathy, and then complete embarrassment, but I couldn't just let her cry.

If manners didn't exist, I would tell her to shut up because it was bloody uncomfortable, watching her cry about me like that, treating me as if I were still a little boy. But I knew that saying such a thing would hurt her even more, so I gathered myself and held out my arms for her, which she practically collapsed into.

"Oh, Mum," I sighed, pulling her in for a hug and letting her slobber all over my shoulder. "I don't need to bring my baby pictures. You can keep those to look at when you miss me..."

I trailed off as I noticed movement outside of my window, and I glanced up to see Sherlock waving casually at me from outside. My eyes widened in shock, and I shook my head at him. "Not now," I mouthed silently at him. "Later."

He raised his eyebrows in amusement and stayed exactly where he was, unmoving except for his fingers, which were twirling a piece of long, dead grass between them. "Sorry," he mouthed, cupping his ear in his hand. "Can't hear you."

I gritted my teeth because I had an extra problem on my hands now, and I sort of glared at him as Mum sobbed. He could just as easily have used the door.

Mum gripped me with her hands in a way that was so desperate and maybe even panicked that I actually began considering getting her a therapist whilst Sherlock sat, cross-legged, outside my window, resting his chin on his hand and staring intensely into my eyes, still fiddling with the piece of dead grass. My mother finally let go of me, leaving potential bruises in my back from where her fingers were digging in, and stood up.

I moved over and stood by the door so she wouldn't look at the window, trying to smile compassionately at her for as long as I could manage as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and walked upstairs. "Let me know if you need anything," she said, her voice breaking as she sniffled and made her way to the ground level of the home. I immediately closed my door, waiting for her footsteps to disappear up the stairs, and ran to the window, opening it and letting my friend inside.

"Sherlock!" I said. "What's wrong with using the front door?"

He jumped down to the floor, the soles of his shoes clicking on the concrete, removing his gloves and stuffing them into his pocket. "Your elder sister gets on my nerves," he said. "Did I ever tell you she's a lesbian? Well, she's lesbian." He paced nervously around the room. "There's no way in hell that I've left any belongings of mine at your home. Why am I here? Oh, yes, right. John," he said, inhaling loudly and turning to me. "The thingy that Molly asked us to attend... it's an outdoor party, yet still somehow a nice occasion, or... something. My point being, we need to dress nicely to fit in. I have no clothing items that match the standard. I literally only own some sweatshirts, a button-up and a pair of trousers."

"Hold on," I said. "You..."

"Yes?"

"...wear..."

"...yes?" He sounded less confident this time. Honestly, so did I. And with good reason, too.

"...sweatshirts?" I asked. I could never imagine him in one. I had only ever seen him in his coat or wearing his purple dress shirt, which I actually thought would be very nice at the outside pumpkin thingy. Not like he would listen if I told him that.

He nodded slowly. "I do."

I threw my right hand up in the air. "When? I have never seen you wear anything other than... well, that." I motioned to his current attire, and he shrugged and restated the point of the visit.

"My problem, John," he said, "is that I'm all packed and everything, and, though I have multiple items of clothing, I went through all of them and couldn't find one classy thing to wear."

I furrowed my brow. "It's cold," I said. "We'll all be wearing parkas and whatnot anyway. Why dress up?"

"Because," Sherlock almost whined. "We can't offend Molly."

Oh, so he was worried about Molly. Hm.

"Well," I said, taking my backpack from the corner of the room and packing my journal and a few good pens inside. "Luckily for you, you have the rest of the week to get ready."

He furrowed his brow and leaned over a bit. "You're not unprepared?" he asked.

"I have a few nice outfits," I said. "I think what you're wearing now is fine."

He scowled down at his shirt, his coat waving out behind him. "Are you quite sure, John?" he asked. "Because many people in town will be there, apparently. I don't want to piss them off."

"Piss them..." I snorted. "Sherlock, this is the stupidest conversation I've ever had. We're gossiping about clothing like girls. Ask your mum." I stuffed some books and my toothbrush into my bag as well, along with a pile of shirts, barely able to zip it shut. I hadn't even packed my clothes yet.

Sherlock sort of pouted in the corner, staring at the floor for a moment and sighing. "Can't," he finally said. "She'll think I'm in love with Molly, and that'll be annoying. She shouldn't know about any of this, actually."

Any of this? "Any of what?" I asked.

"The pumpkin event... thingymabobber."

"Oh," I said. "Right." I cleared my throat and grabbed a cardboard box, laying a bunch of folded clothes inside. Sherlock stood stoically next to me, looking down, his hands in his pockets.

"I still can't believe you wear sweatshirts," I marvelled, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and quickly changed the subject.

"Why do people even celebrate pumpkins?" he asked. "What the hell for? They're just orange plants and everyone goes about and glorifies their very existence."

"Like George Clooney," I said, stuffing a messy pile of clothing into the box as Sherlock watched on.

"Do you want me to help?" he asked.

"Please," I said. "Top left drawer. Everything I haven't packed is in there."

"Oh," he said, as if he wasn't expecting me to say yes. "Alright." He gracefully stepped over, gently and quietly sliding the drawer open with his right hand and reaching inside. He took a pile of folded trousers, handing them to me. He then tossed me my pants, making an awkward facial expression as he pretended to not know what he was touching. I could have done that myself if it made him feel so uncomfortable.

I put my clothes into the box and we walked into the bathroom, carelessly tossing toiletries of all sorts into the box and not really paying attention to what they were. The only thing I really used in there was product for my hair, which had already landed on top of my shirts with a soft thud. I rummaged through the bottom cabinet, taking a first aid kit for good measure.

"Tampons?" I said, not expecting to see them there. I always thought they were funny. They looked like little tadpoles. "Why are they in here? Nobody else even uses this bathroom."

"Maybe your parents think you're a girl," Sherlock said casually. "Knowing the habits of your father, he probably would."

"That's actually true," I said, pushing them to the side and handing my friend some disinfectant wipes for wounds.

Sherlock took them and placed them neatly in the box. "In all seriousness, John, tampons are actually very good blood clotting devices for wounds, and have been said to be used in the world wars."

I closed the cabinet. "Are you suggesting we bring them?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Maybe."

Snorting sarcastically, I tossed him one and he dropped it in the box, the pink wrapper crinkling as it landed. "It's good to always be prepared, I suppose," Sherlock said.

"Yeah," I replied. "Preparing for your first menstrual cycle is extremely important."

"Quite so." Sherlock smirked, shutting the lid on the box and handing it to me. I took it, pretending not to feel our hands brushing against each other's.

"Thank you," I said politely. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

Sherlock nodded and went back to my room, opening the window and hoisting himself up onto the ground. "Eight o'clock. We'll be waiting outside in Mycroft's bloody stupid car he was awarded for being the British government."

I chuckled, looking up at him through the window. "See you."

Sherlock looked down at me for a while, his breath making clouds in the air as our eyes interlocked. "See you," he breathed, and slowly walked across the street, the tail of his coat dancing in the wind behind him.


	15. № 15

My rucksack was slung over my left, non-wounded shoulder, and my arm was around Mum's back as Harry reproachfully agreed to taking a Polaroid photograph of us. Dad was asleep with a hangover. But that was fine; I hadn't expected to say goodbye to him anyway. I smiled at the lens as we waited for Sherlock and Mycroft to be ready. Harry clicked the button on the camera, and a white slip of paper slowly rolled out of it, her thin fingers gently taking it out and fanning it through the air, handing it to Mum for safekeeping.

I didn't expect anything other than how the day had gone so far. Harry was a pain in the arse, Mum was a pain in the heart, and Dad was an alcoholic. And my mother was sobbing like a lunatic, her crying intensifying as I patted her back and smiled awkwardly, saying things like "It's okay," and "I'll visit," and "Can we please just take the bloody picture?"

Harry scowled from behind her mop of curly, reddish-blond hair as she stared at the camera in her hand, waiting for instruction. I told her to put it away, and she shook her head.

"I want one, too, dipshit."

Harry wanted a picture with me? It actually was very nice to hear. Mum eagerly took the camera and walked to the edge of the sidewalk, and Harry slung her arm around my shoulder and we both smiled as Mum snapped the photograph. She waited for it to develop, and Harry gave me a soft punch to the arm.

"Hey," she said. "I'll miss you."

I smiled a bit. "I'll miss you, too."

"You're gonna be about seven times more successful than me," she said. "I can tell."

I cocked my head at her. "How can you be sure?" I asked.

She crossed her arms and sighed. "Well, you know, you're moving out so you'll be less exposed to alcohol and drugs and dysfunctional situations, but I can barely fend for myself without Mum and Dad. I have to stay here. And that means eventually falling into their patterns as well."

I smirked. "I could see you as an alcoholic."

She shrugged. "Honestly, so could I."

A nice, shiny car pulled up in front of us and beeped, Mycroft impatiently waiting in the front seat. I picked up my extra box, putting it in the boot of the car along with my rucksack. Harry chuckled gloomily, giving me a side-hug.

"Go do something extraordinary, my little Watson," she said, and she ruffled my hair and sat down on the front step as Mum forced upon me one last hug, sobbing and giving me multiple sloppy kisses on the cheek. "And call me!"

"I will!" I yelled back, trying to leave as fast as I possibly could. I couldn't get away from Mum quickly enough. I jumped into the car and closed the door, sighing in relief as I sank into the back seat next to Sherlock, watching Harry mope and Mum blow exaggerated kisses at me as we drove away.

Finally, my family was out of sight.

"Christ," I sighed, resting my forehead in my hand. "Glad that's over."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, a wave of astonishment crossing his strained facial expression. "Are they always like this?" he asked.

I crossed my right leg over my left. "You wouldn't believe..." He was lucky to have such an unattached family. It was much better than what I had. Of course, I loved Mum and Harry immensely, but it would be so nice if they were... different.

"So," Sherlock said, changing the subject quite conveniently. "We share a dormitory now."

I nodded. "Yes."

"Thanks to me," Mycroft piped up from the driver's seat. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Yes, thank you," I said for him, on behalf of the both of us. He didn't respond, and I was not surprised. He didn't seem like much of a "no problem" or "anytime, my pleasure" sort of human being. He just seemed like a sack of bulls-

"Hit a rabbit on the road today," Mycroft informed us for some reason. "I made a little girl cry."

"Watching things die is always traumatic," Sherlock replied in what appeared to be sympathetic agreement, looking nonchalantly out the window.

Mycroft sighed. "Turned out it belonged to her. I didn't know what to do so I gave her three pounds and the carcass and drove off."

The car was suddenly dead silent.

I leaned forward in my seat. "Sorry... what?"

"Peeling it off of the road was vile," he kept elaborating, making a face as he went. "It seemed as though it had been glued to the pavement. I got the top half off easily, but the bottom half I had to retrieve with a twig. You should have seen the look on everyone's face when-"

"Mycroft." Sherlock said.

"Yes?"

"Stop talking."

"Amen to that," I scoffed, disgusted as I involuntarily replayed the whole story in my mind on a loop. Sure, I may have escaped my family, but I hadn't a clue how long it would take for Mycroft to disappear. Hopefully he would let us be as soon as possible. Although Sherlock had told me time and time again that Mycroft acted as an overprotective parent to him, so I wasn't sure how much of a chance we really had of that.

"Here we are," Mycroft said, pulling up to a large, beautiful old building made of bright red bricks. "Your new... place. I'm not walking you in, so hopefully you can carry all of your belongings in your hands."

We both stepped out of the car, opening the boot and retrieving our things. Sherlock had brought a little cart which he had strapped all his boxes to using stretchy cables and a whole lot of packaging tape. He had a significant amount more than I did, so I helped him lower the cart onto the ground, giving him the handle and closing the boot. I picked up my box, walking to the building and clumsily opening the door for him.

"Thank you," he said, walking inside as Mycroft drove off. Ahead of us was a lift, and Sherlock quickly rummaged in the pockets of his coat, and then his trousers, producing a map of the campus and two room keys, one of which he placed in my hand.

"We're in room four hundred forty-two," he announced, and I pushed the button and waited for the lift to arrive.

"You moving in early, too?" a voice came from behind us, and I turned round to see a skinny girl with short styled hair and a face that meant business and business only. She held her thin hand out to Sherlock, who shook it hesitantly with his own and turned back to the door of the lift.

"Irene," she said.

"John," I said, offering a handshake, but she ignored me.

"Who are you?" she asked Sherlock in a low voice, trying to get a good look at his face.

"Sherlock Holmes," he replied, looking up at the circular light in apprehension, avoiding Irene as she tried to catch his eye. She pouted and leant all her weight onto her right hip, sighing in defeat. The doors finally opened, and we walked in, pressing the number four as quickly as we possibly could.

"I'm in room one hundred ten," Irene said, clearly not looking at me. "I still have to wait for my roommate, so we part here. Be sure to stop by."

The doors closed far later than I would have preferred, and I stood awkwardly next to Sherlock as we ascended to our floor.

I inhaled, trying to think of something to say. "She was..."

Sherlock finished my sentence, since I couldn't think of what to say. "...definitely an experience."

I puckered my lips and bit the inside of my cheek. "Do you... Do you like her? I mean, will you be seeing her again?"

He leaned his back against the elevator wall, looking up at the ceiling. "I've told you before. Girlfriends aren't my area."

"But what's that even supposed to mean?" I asked. "That's so confusing! Are you gay? Are you not ready for relationships? Do you like people at all? What is your area?"

He paused for a moment, and then said, "My preferred division is solving puzzles. However, in some instances, other things surpass it." He glanced at me, tapping his pointer finger on the railing. "That girl will never even come close."

He never gave straight answers. It was infuriating, deep down. But I didn't want to pry any more than I already had, so I stayed silent as we reached the fourth floor.

The lift slowly came to a halt, dinging as the doors opened. I carried by box out, the wheels on Sherlock's small cart squealing obnoxiously as we made our way down the hall to room 442. I held my things in my left arm, unlocking and opening the door with my right and walking inside, my friend close behind.

We left our things by the door as we both decided to explore. We had three rooms: a bathroom, a bedroom, and a medium-sized main room with a few sofas and a small kitchen. The walls were sparse and bare, some bits cracked and some stained, the rest an ugly, faded green. There were old, ripped curtains as well, and a dusty rug on the floor. This place needed some care. But only when we could afford it.

"Do you get paid?" I asked, staring at the room. Sherlock, leaning back against the table and crossing his arms, seemed confused.

"Sorry?" he asked, bringing a fist up under his chin as he stared at the sight ahead of us.

"Do they pay you when you solve cases?"

He shook his head. "No," he said. "Why?"

I motioned to the room. "Because we need to fix this so it doesn't look like the embodiment of a landfill in the middle of the ocean. If we're living here for the next few years, it's going to need to feel at least a bit pleasant."

"And?"

I cleared my throat. "And so we'll need the money. Can't you ask them to pay you?"

He turned to me. "You have a job, do you not?"

"I quit the other day," I said. "I'm looking for places around campus."

"Ah," he said. "I see."

I looked up at him, blinking and raising my eyebrows the slightest bit. "You do all their work for them," I said, "yet they're still the ones getting paid. You need to arrange something."

He pursed his lips. "They don't pay amateurs," he said, "especially if they don't work for the place itself. I'm better off just getting a normal job like everyone else."

I could never imagine Sherlock being a normal employee at a normal job. He'd be fired instantly. Of that I was sure.

"But you're not everyone else, Sherlock," I said. "You have these capabilities that few people own, you have potential that you don't even realise, and you still would rather have a normal job instead of being paid for doing what you do?"

He nodded. "Precisely my point, John." He mockingly patted the top of my head and walked into the bedroom, leaning out the doorway and meeting my gaze. "John," he said.

I crossed my arms. "Yes?"

"The beds are side by side rather than on top of each other," he informed me.

Knowing that there was no reason for that to be important at all, I nodded sarcastically and kind of scoffed. "Great."

"But it is," he said. "Because I'd have to take the bottom bunk. Everyone else is always on top."

I furrowed my brow. "What's so wrong about being on bottom?"

He rolled his eyes. "Obviously, John," he said. "It isn't as fun. You look up and all you see is wood. It's..." He waved his hand in a circle and sort of scoffed. "...boring."

I shrugged. "Well then," I said, "Do you want the left or right bed?"

"Right," he said. "Unless you want that one. You can have it. But I'd prefer the one without a window."

"Don't you like windows?"

He shook his head. "I've been thrown onto the roof once before. I don't want it to happen again."

I nodded and took my box into the bedroom, laying it down on the bed by the window and tossing my backpack down as well. I sat cross-legged on the bed and Sherlock sat neutrally on his. I opened my rucksack, beginning to sort my clothes into piles and putting them into drawers, feeling Sherlock's eyes boring into my back as I did. I put my journal on my bedside table along with its pen, and Sherlock kept watching, analysing my every move with his icy eyes. In a sense, I could feel them freezing my spine, and I tried my best to ignore it.

All my belongings finally in their proper places, including all my extra things (including the requested tampon) in the bathroom, I shoved the empty cardboard box under my bed and tossed my backpack into the corner of the room. Sherlock watched, still sitting awkwardly, as if waiting for instruction.

"Aren't you going to unpack?" I asked.

"I'll let the place stay tidy for a while," he replied. "I wouldn't want to ruin it within the first twenty minutes of living in it."

"How messy can it be?" I asked. "It's only a few extra boxes."

He gave me a sort of squinty look. "Are you sure you want to know?"

I nodded, feeling only temporarily diligent and inspired. "Yeah. What could go wrong?"


	16. № 16

There was science equipment everywhere. And when I say everywhere, I am wholeheartedly expecting you to take it literally. It. Was. All. Over.

Almost every table-like surface had some sort of thing related to chemistry or biology resting on top of it. There was a microscope on the side table. I repeat: a microscope... on the side table...

I didn't mind his violin in the corner, though. That wasn't so bad. I had to admit, Sherlock did warn me it would be a mess. I just didn't listen. Christ; no wonder nobody wanted to live with him.

Had I made a mistake, deciding to move in with him? Likely. Hopefully I wouldn't regret it later, because I sure regretted it now.

Sherlock stared at me from where he was leaning against the doorframe a few yards off. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Um," I said, clearing my throat. "Nothing. Can we just... maybe keep all your equipment under the side-table or in the drawers unless you're using them?" I motioned to the furniture that had been taken up by his forceps and what-not, and he shrugged.

"Sure," he said. "You must be an extra clean person, then. I can live with that."

"I'm sure I'm just clean at an average level," I reasoned. "You're the only person I know who leaves absolutely no surface uncovered for things like, oh, I don't know, food or plates or cutlery..."

"I could be unusually messy," he said, walking over to me and staring into my eyes, his gaze glowing and urgent in a way. "Or perhaps you think I'm more than I am, so you're therefore surprised at my human-like flaws, your subconscious mind automatically throwing the severity out of proportion."

I opened my mouth to object, but closed it shut once more, realising that he was likely right. So I nodded in defeat and sat down on the sofa, taking the phone book from its odd place on the floor and looking through it. Sherlock, who was wrapping the power cord around his microscope, turned to me and furrowed his brow.

"What are you up to?" he asked, and I pointed out the window with my thumb.

"It's dark," I said. "We've been here all day."

He nodded. "And?"

"You promised me," I said, looking through the sections and finding the appropriate one, "That you would eat at least once a day if I were to be your crime-solving sidekick. So I'm calling out for takeaway."

He pursed his lips and sighed. "Forgot," he said. "Chinese?"

"Sure," I said, standing up, finding the nearest number and dialling it on the dirty, faded telephone hanging in the wall. "What do you want?"

He shrugged. "Just get random stuff and we'll eat it."

I rolled my eyes, hearing someone pick up the phone and greet me with a cheery Asian accent.

"Hello! You're calling China Express. What will you buy today?"

"Uh, hello," I said. "I actually don't have a menu, so can you tell me your most popular choices?"

Sherlock dropped the microscope, and the corner of the base looked like it chipped off, making a large thud as it hit the old hardwood floor. He sighed and sat on the ground, picking up the broken piece and trying to fit it back.

"Here at China Express, we have many famous foods. Try our fried rice and sesame chicken, or Chinese noodles with tofu and sweet and sour sauce! Everyone loves our egg rolls, and the American tourists love the chow mein!"

Sherlock ran to his drawer in the bedroom and reappeared with a small bottle of glue, which he squeezed out onto the piece and left on the floor, uncapped, as he began reattaching the corner to the microscope.

"Alright," I said. "I'll take one serving of the rice and chicken, and another of the chow mein. Throw a few egg rolls in there as well. Thank you."

The glue began leaking into the floor, and I started motioning to Sherlock to put a cap on it and clean it up, but he became very confused and stopped moving completely, scrunching up his face in a kind of adorable way as he tried to decipher what I meant.

"The glue!" I whisper-yelled as the lady began talking again.

"Is that all you're going to buy today?" she asked. Sherlock put a cap on the glue, still not cleaning up the mess, and finished placing the corner of the microscope back on.

"Yes, thank you," I said, and, turning back to Sherlock, said, "There's a puddle on the floor!"

"I will need your address and it will be delivered soon!" the lady said, and I leant back against the wall.

"Yes. We're in room four hundred and forty-two at-" I stopped suddenly as Sherlock set the microscope down in the glue as he went to retrieve some supplies for cleaning it up. "Sherlock!" I scolded. "It'll get stuck on the floor now!"

Sherlock flashed me a fake smile as he appeared with a roll of lavatory paper and began showing it off like a host of an exaggerated American game show. I glared at him, even though it was still quite amusing, and he sighed and began cleaning everything up.

I finally finished giving the woman our address, and I hung up the phone and hurried over to Sherlock, who had finished cleaning the extra glue off the microscope but had, of course, left the spot of it on the floor. Taking a wad off from the loo roll and dabbing it on the floor, I looked up at him frustratedly from where I was watching him examine the corner of his science equipment device.

"What is it now?" Sherlock asked nonchalantly, setting the microscope in a drawer through the doorway as I finished wiping up his spill.

I clenched my jaw, sighing and clearing my throat. "You didn't follow my directions," I said. "If I weren't here with you, there'd be glue all over the floor and I'm sure you wouldn't have cleaned it up in the least."

Sherlock went back over to the chairs and sat down in one, nodding in almost agreement as I got up to sit across from him in a chair. "That's quite accurate," he said, "and you may be right about me being unusually untidy."

"And?" I said, crossing my arms and leaning back in my seat.

He paused, looking around the room like a child as he took a moment to think. "And I apologise?" he asked unsurely, which I accepted.

"Will you clean up after yourself next time?" I asked. "Please? Especially if it's something like the floor?"

He smirked from across the space. "Anything for my Watson."

Taken off-guard for a moment, I paused, trying to understand exactly what that meant as Sherlock stood up and walked to the door, opening it about thirty seconds before there was to be a knock.

"Chinese food for you!" A young female voice said. "That'll be £20."

Sherlock fished through his pocket(he didn't seem to have a wallet) and paid accordingly, taking the food inside and closing the door without even thanking her. This boy was unbelievable. I walked over as Sherlock opened the takeaway boxes and divided them all up equally on two plates, handing one to me with a fork and a firm grip and taking the other for himself. We sat next to each other on the sofa, facing one another and leaning against the armrests. I took a bite of my food, not realizing how hungry I was until I tasted it.

"So we're mostly independent now," I said. "How are we feeling about that?" I took a forkful of rice and ravenously shoveled it into my mouth as Sherlock slowly took tiny bites off of his plate.

"It's good to be away from Mycroft," Sherlock said. "And Dad. And Mum. And your family." Of course he was bothered by my family. Actually, I started wondering if there was anyone that didn't bother him.

I nodded. "I almost thought I'd never be able to leave the house. This is better. A lot better." I took an egg roll in my hand, taking a bite off of the end and setting it back down on my plate.

"Do you listen to music much?" Sherlock asked suddenly, sticking his fork into a piece of chicken and twirling it around in his hand.

I nodded. "I used to have a whole bunch of music cassettes, but my mum got rid of them when we moved. I used to take piano lessons, and I don't mind singing."

He looked up at me from behind his lashes. "Are you any good?"

I shook my head. "I like music," I said. "I'm just not good at it."

He nodded, putting the chicken in his mouth and chewing, looking out the window at the streetlight-illuminated road below. Swallowing, he watched people walk along and cars pass by, talking again.

"I've always loved music," he said. "Mum used to play Beethoven on the piano when I was young. Mycroft hated it, so I asked her to play it more just so I could annoy him, until, eventually, I knew the pieces by heart and figured them out on the piano one day."

"Mycroft doesn't like Beethoven?" I asked. "Is he some sort of psychopath or something?"

Sherlock laughed, his voice low and flowing. "You'd be surprised."

We sat in silence, just the two of us, watching the world down below. Maybe this was what heaven was like, if it even existed. I'm sure it would be very similar.

"Hey, Sherlock?" I asked, clenching my jaw and trying to control my breathing.

"Yes?"

Inhaling and looking down at the road, I anxiously opened my mouth.

"Sherlock, I..."

I couldn't bring myself to say it. My voice cut off, and my mouth froze, half-open, terrified. Sherlock turned to me with a concerned look on his face. I stopped myself from looking back. The lighting was too perfect on his face; I'd forget the point I was trying to make.

"What is it?" he asked quietly, tilting his head to get a better view of my face. I closed my eyes, sighing, and opened them up again.

"I think I'm..."

I groaned in frustration, pressing my forehead against the window. Sherlock swallowed, putting his plate of food on the floor and laying his hand on my shoulder, squeezing it in attempt to comfort me.

"You can tell me," he said. "It's alright." His eyes were bright and understanding, as if he knew exactly what I was going through and how it felt. He smiled softly at me, and I took a moment to appreciate the fullness of his lips, aglow in the pale light from the scene below us, out of the corner of my eye. He looked kind, trustworthy, pretty...

But hearing this made me even more anxious. Did he already know? If he knew I was not only attracted to men but also partially in love with him, I didn't know what I would do. There was absolutely no chance that he would like me back, anyway. I would just end up making everything more awkward.

His hand was still on my shoulder. It was warm, and strong, and soft. I wished I could only take it in mine, press my lips against it, feel it's warmth against my cheek. I wished he wanted me to.

My voice strained, I stood up, brushing his tempting hand off me and putting my half-eaten plate of food on the floor. "I can't," I rasped. "I can't do it. I won't. I'd screw everything up." I walked to the bedroom, Sherlock's sad, worried eyes following me until I was out of sight. Only then did he turn back to the view from the dirty glass window in front of him, picking his plate back up and finishing it, just like he had promised me he would.


	17. № 17

James Bond was the only thing Sherlock would watch without correcting, so I took the chance and watched the most recent one with him. Truth be told, neither of us paid much attention. I looked at him a lot. Sometimes he would look back, then shift in his seat, and then go back to staring off into space with his fingertips together, pointed up at the ceiling as he touched them lightly to his chin.

This had become more and more of a common occurrence as time passed. Every day I seemed to become less shy about looking at him. Besides, it wasn't like he ever noticed, anyway.

The movie ended, and I barely noticed due to the fact that I was incredibly preoccupied. I was trying to teach myself to remember the exact way his nose looked from a side angle, the way his eyes were shaped while they rested shut, the way his lips quivered every now and again.

"Rewind the tape," Sherlock said, eyes still closed, and I wondered how he knew. He probably had an hourglass in his head. He was clever enough to.

"Right," I replied, standing up and pressing the rewind button on the cassette player, sitting back down on the sofa and pretended to have something to do. Sherlock didn't buy into it, of course, and he pointed, eyes still shut, to an envelope on the coffee table.

"Open the letter," he said. "It's important; I can just..." He curled his fingers into little claws, tightening his arm muscles and clenching his jaw. "...feel it."

"You can feel things now?" I asked half-jokingly. "Since when?"

He opened his eyes then, moving them immediately to me. "It's less of an intuitive sense and more of a calculative notion. We just moved in yesterday. Why would we get a letter now? Your family is most likely too busy caring for your father and each other to write, and mine wouldn't anyway. Furthermore, local parcels take at least one day to reach their destination, so the sender must have written it ahead of time, sending it before we even moved in." He paused, smirking at my usual astonished expression for a moment before adding, "It also says James Moriarty on the back in the top left corner."

I scoffed. "You could have told me that earlier."

He chuckled. "But it's fun to impress you."

"Ha," I said sarcastically. "Must be fun to trick me too. Psychopath." I whispered the last word under my breath, but Sherlock watched my lip movement as I did, so he knew anyway. Instead o responding, he simply pointed to the letter again.

Rolling my eyes, I carefully opened the envelope, looking inside as I lifted the main flap.

"Anything suspicious?" Sherlock asked, and I shook my head.

"Just a folded letter," I said. "Doesn't smell, doesn't contain anything else. Just paper and ink."

He leant back in the chair and closed his eyes again, bringing his hands back up to his face in the same prayer-like position as before. "Can you read it aloud?"

I unfolded the paper, flattening the creases against the table with my hands. Taking a deep breath, I began to read.

"My dear friend,

A little bird told me that you'd be attending the pumpkin event this weekend. What a coincidence! I was planning on striking there that day. You may try to stop me if you wish.

Regards,

Jim."

Sherlock sighed. "That's tomorrow. Damn. I'd forgotten." When he swore, he scrunched up his face and tilted his head to the side, a surprisingly emotional gesture for him.

"Will we stop him?" I asked. "Is it good I'm coming along, then?"

He nodded. "It's always good if you come along. Especially if I'm with a girl that seeks and deserves better and far more mutual affection than what I can provide." He tapped his foot softly on the floor, the other leg crossed over it.

I liked when he told me I was important. It made me feel happier, more confident. Because he was beautiful, and I liked him, compliments meant so much more than they would coming from anyone else.

It was still hard to accept. I had a crush on a boy.

I started to realise that it didn't matter, however. Pleasing Mum wasn't that important. Pleasing my father had never been less important than it was now. Besides, I didn't live under their roof, anyway. I could live by my own rules, my own restrictions. I didn't have to go to church all the time. I didn't have to keep a completely tidy room. And I didn't have to be completely straight.

Sherlock moved over and sat next to me on the sofa. He reached for the letter in my hand. "May I see that?"

I handed it to him, taking in his rich, sweet scent. He read the letter over again a few times, seeming to copy it and keep a printed version in his head. He nodded, set it down, and leant back next to me, hoisting his feet up on the coffee table in front of us. Sighing, he folded his hands in his lap.

"Nothing important on the agenda tomorrow," he said. "Except for saving everyone's arse. But, you know, it happens."

I giggled. "Do you not like saving people?"

"I'm used to looking at dead bodies, not trying to save living ones. I solve crimes mostly surrounding murders. It's rare that I have to know how to save people from doing what gives me a job, as if it were some game," he explained a bit overdramatically. "But I'll try. I'll try my best."

"Don't you want them to live?" I asked, putting my hands behind my head and stretching back.

"Well," my flatmate replied, "There is this one particular fellow who used to cut in front of me at the library, and he will be there, so I don't think I'd mind sacrificing him..." He laughed deeply and almost sarcastically, looking straight ahead of him and smiling deviously. I chuckled softly, crossing my arms, turning my head toward his direction and watching him. His smile eventually faded, and he stared at his feet, which were still inside of his shiny, black dress shoes.

One thing I especially liked about his presence was that he didn't mind silence. He left space for thinking instead of talking the entire time. It was a rare trait that not everyone had, and I appreciated it immensely. He began thinking again, leaving me time to accidentally find myself staring once more.

His shirt.

It was purple, fitted perfectly, stretched across his skin, the buttons on his chest pulling the fabric tighter and rippling it. He had rolled up his sleeves, his forearms exposed, the collar of his shirt buttoned and ironed in just the right way so that his neck and face were both complimented very well. The light from the window illuminated his hair and the back of his neck, a few streams of it lightly brushing against his shoulders and ears.

I wished I were good at drawing. Then maybe I could capture it better.

"John," he said.

"Yes?"

"Do you think Molly really likes me? Even though I'm rude and incompetent and unsociable?" He fiddled absentmindedly with the button on the cuff of his sleeve.

I nodded. "Absolutely. You don't have to be a psychopath to be attracted to Sherlock Holmes."

He sighed. "But I have an awful personality. It's bloody terrible, John."

"No," I replied. "You actually don't. I don't think so. Molly likely sees you in the way that I do. Soft, understanding, intelligent..."

"Or she could just be extremely shallow and not care about people unless they're hot." Sherlock said.

I laughed. "Perhaps."

We fell asleep there, him resting backward against the soft fabric of the sofa, and me slumped against him. Eventually, I fell into his lap. If I woke him, he never complained. He didn't move me, either.

☯

"John."

His hand was gently touching my head as Sherlock woke me up. "John, wake up."

"Mmm?" I groaned, slowly opening my eyes. I looked up to see Sherlock, leaning over me and lifting my head off of his leg.

"John, it's eleven thirty," he said. "We need to meet Molly at the pumpkin festival in half an hour. Get up."

I rubbed my eyes with my hands, sitting up and stretching my legs as Sherlock jumped up, sprinting to his drawers and retrieving some dressy clothing and some hair product and bringing them to the bathroom, hurriedly slamming the door behind him. Suddenly realising the urgency of the situation, I jumped up, too, running into the bedroom and closing the door, flinging my drawer open and rummaging through my clothing.

I threw on a button-up shirt and some dark, tight jeans, looking in the mirror above the dresser and starting to style my hair as best I possibly could. Running my fingers - along with what might have been too much product - through it, I began looking abnormally presentable. Running to the kitchen and dropping two pieces of bread in the toaster, I put on my scarf, coat and shoes and waited for Sherlock to come out.

The toast popped up, and I quickly spread some butter on each piece and searched the refrigerator for protein. Spoiler alert: there was none. I began scarfing down my makeshift breakfast, making sure my shoes were tied.

"Is this for me?" I heard Sherlock ask as he approached the bread.

"Yes," I said, standing back up. "It's..."

My voice stopped working. My lips stopped moving. I stood, stunned, as my flatmate took the toast in his hand and took a bite, his usually curly and fluffy hair completely slicked back, his sleek figure shown off by his classy black trousers and shirt, until I noticed a crucial detail.

"Sherlock," I said, and he turned to me.

"Yes?" he asked.

"We're wearing matching shirts."

Urgently throwing his toast back on his plate and darting back to the bedroom, Sherlock threw his purple shirt back on, running back to the kitchen while buttoning it up and slipping on his shoes as he stuffed the bottom of it into his trousers. He took his coat from by the door and, finally, we left, locking it behind us and forgetting his scarf.


	18. № 18

We arrived. We were seven minutes late, but we arrived.

A loud, festive song was being played on a stereo as we stepped out of the taxi and made our way to the entrance of a large tent in the middle of an oversized pumpkin patch. Sherlock took a wad of money out of his pocket and handed it to the man at the door, who gave us each one ticket. We put them in our pockets, and I stood awkwardly next to Sherlock as we waited for Molly.

"Useless, the tickets," he mumbled quietly. "We're not going to do anything except for hold them. What's the use of a piece of paper that's only for carrying around?"

Shushing him, I put my hands in my coat pockets and waited. "People like to keep them as a sort of collection sometimes," I said, and he scoffed.

"Collecting paper. As if collecting anything was bad enough."

I sighed. "Well, with all the sitting around you do, you, young man, happen to collect a lot of dust."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, dropping his ticket into the rubbish bin and shaking his head.

I glanced over at him again, taking in what I hadn't been able to before. His coat was slung over his right arm since the tent was heated, and he had a powerful, formal stance about him, looking straight ahead at the cold setting, likely making it colder with his stare alone.

I liked how he looked. And it was embarrassing to know. But he made me feel giddy and warm, and it wasn't just his shirt. Although it did have a significant part in it.

"Sherlock!" Molly called, approaching us from outside. "Hello!" She paid for her ticket, coming inside and nodding awkwardly at me.

"Hi, Molly," I said after Sherlock stayed silent. "How are you?"

"Good!" she smiled, looking around. Her hand fiddled with the hem of her dress, and we awkwardly and silently stood still until she added, "Well, there's food, and music, and dancing. There are games outside as well. There's a pumpkin carving contest!" Her voice was light and breathy, a quality that I envied of it.

"Generic," Sherlock muttered, "but I suppose the average human would find it... fun."

Molly smiled up at Sherlock. "You look... good," she said. "I haven't seen you dressed up before."

"Neither have I," I muttered breathlessly to the floor as my flatmate nodded nonchalantly and dismissed the subject.

"People may be hurt at this event," he said. "So be cautious."

"Oh, you're so sweet, looking out for me like that," Molly gushed, and I pursed my lips.

"No," I said, "There's actually an attack planned and we're here to stop it."

Sherlock glared at me, as if I had just ruined everything. I shrugged as Molly's smile faded. "Oh. Well... then it's nice of you to look out for everyone like that." Swallowing and anxiously motioning to a chess table in the corner, she took in a shaky breath and asked, "Do you want to sit down?"

Without responding, we all walked over to the table, and I sat across from Sherlock and watched as he moved a pawn one space forward. I thought it was rude that he was playing with me and completely ignoring Molly, but I went along with it anyway, moving my pawn two spaces closer to him as Molly fiddled with her nice pink gown.

"Look, Sherlock," Molly said, "There's something we need to discuss."

"Mm?" Sherlock asked, making another move.

Molly watched as I moved my pawn again, and then she blurted out, "I love you, Sherlock."

My arm, which was still holding my pawn, stiffened, my eyes widening as I swallowed and completely tensed up. Molly in love with Sherlock. What was I to think?

Nothing. 

I was to think absolutely nothing. I was to keep my cool and feel no resentment, no jealousy, no envy, and just enjoy my day with Sherlock and Molly and maybe get some cocoa and-

That was it. That was the ticket to saving the situation.

"Hot chocolate, anyone?" I asked abruptly, standing up and knocking my friend out of his panic-induced haze. Sherlock stood up quickly as well, nodding and putting his coat back on.

"Great idea, John. Hot chocolate, Molly?"

She nodded quietly, and Sherlock walked out ahead of us, catching my eye and mouthing the word genius to me, which I didn't understand in the least.

"Three hot chocolates, please," he said, approaching the overpriced concessions stand and handing them even more money than he had for the tickets. Hearing him say please was extremely foreign, and I almost did a double-take. "And make hers a bit cooler, because, you know, it can really burn." He put emphasis on the word burn, as if it meant something extremely important, and the worker nodded and began preparing the drinks.

Molly's hands were stone, wringing the skirt of her dress as she nervously bit her lip. "Thank you for meeting me here," she said, and Sherlock nodded.

"You're welcome," he said, making it the first proper response he had given her today. The worker handed us each a drink, and I waited for mine to cool down. Molly's wasn't as hot, though, just like Sherlock had asked for, so she drank it straightaway, finishing it within the first ten minutes or so, just as ours began cooling off.

"You drank that rather quickly," I said. "Your stomach might be upset."

Molly shook her head. "I'll be alright," she said. "Do you want to go dance?"

We left our drinks outside so they could cool off faster, and walked into the tent, where they were playing some 80s songs, bright, colourful lights circling around the room. I had never been one for dancing, so I sat on a chair in the corner and watched. Molly took Sherlock by the arm and brought him over to the crowd, getting him to awkwardly participate, and I watched, completely uninterested. Sherlock cast a few anxious glanced in my direction, most likely as a "help me", and I raised my eyebrows, leaning my chin on my fist and supervising everything.

"Come on, John!" Sherlock said, flashing me a forced smile. "Join us!"

I shook my head, and Sherlock bared his teeth and widened his eyes in an urgent manner. "Come join us," he said, and I sighed and hesitantly walked in their direction.

Molly looked a bit pale, and she smiled weakly and pointed at the chair. "I'm gonna... I've got to sit down," she said. "I think you're right, John; I drank that much too fast."

Sherlock nodded, and the music changed to some sort of waltz. I moved to go back with Molly, but Sherlock tightly gripped my arm, pulled me close and pointed to the other side of the room. He leant over, his mouth dangerously close to my ear. I could smell his shampoo.

"Look, John," he said, his thin finger pointing in the direction we were looking. "It's Moriarty. And he brought Mary."

My breath caught in my throat. I didn't want to see Mary. Not now or ever again. Not after what happened. I wished I could just forget her completely and go back to being a stranger to her. But I couldn't, so I knew I had to face my uncomfortable and illogical fears and save the people at this damned, godforsaken pumpkin event.

"Oh," I replied sullenly, noticing their silhouettes mixed in with the crowd. "How will we stop them?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, looking down at me. Slowly and quite hesitantly, he eased his right hand and placed it on my hip, holding his other hand out for me to hold. 

"What are you doing?" I asked, my breath catching in my throat as I felt him touch me.

"We need to blend in, John," Sherlock explained, his voice an urgent whisper as he pulled me closer. His touch was almost intoxicating, but I let the feeling go and cleared my throat to alert him that I wasn't doing this. I backed away, holding my hands out and shaking my head. 

"No," I said. "We can't just... waltz over there like we own the place. We will not waltz. At all."

"Well, we can't simply walk over there, either. We'd cause a scene," he reasoned, approaching me again. I sighed, closing my eyes.

"I don't know how to waltz," I said, extremely insecure, and he nodded.

"Fine," he said, relieving me for a brief second until he added, "You can step on my feet."

Clenching my jaw and giving up, I insecurely rested my right hand in his outstretched one and my left on his shoulder, glancing down at his palm as it touched my hip again, staying there comfortably as we began making our way to Moriarty. I hoped with all my might that Molly wasn't looking.

"Simple, John," Sherlock said. "Watch. On the first beat, move your foot here..."

Slowly, I began getting the hang of things as we steadily made our way to the other side of the room. We got a few stares from others, which was understandable, since we were both males and they were all rich and posh and homophobic, and so I decided to focus on Sherlock rather than them. I kept my eyes fixed on his nose. I liked his nose.

And that was a weird thing to like, I knew. But, truth be told, if it were any different he wouldn't look nearly as angelic.

"Oh, hello, Sherlock," I heard Jim's voice murmur as we reached them, and Sherlock hesitantly let go of me and took Moriarty's hands, dancing with him now and whispering, most likely in hopes of negotiating. I was stuck with Mary, who seemed to know less about waltzing than I did. But, with my past five minutes of experience, I did a passing job. She smiled wickedly at me, and I carefully gave her a weary smirk, not really paying attention to her but more Sherlock, who looked a bit worried and intimidated as he reasoned with Jim.

I only caught a few words, so I couldn't piece together what they were saying. But I know it was in accordance to the attack that was planned, and what we could to to stop it.

"Jim really is something," Mary said. "I like working with him. I'm like his Guinea pig and his escape goat at the same time!" She laughed softly, looking uncomfortably into my eyes and puckering her lips the tiniest bit. "You were a good kisser before," she said. "Are you still?"

"Um," I began to panic as she leaned in for another unwanted kiss. "I, um, I have... mono. Just getting over it, actually. Don't want to wake up with that, do you?"

Mary grimaced and stepped back a bit more just as Sherlock parted with Moriarty and took me back into his arms again, his hand this time at the bottom of my spine, and we slowly waltzed back to Molly. I tried my best not to, but I still ended up stepping on his toes a few times, most likely leaving scuff marks on his shoes. Expressionlessly, he stared into my eyes, and I stared back, focusing on keeping my breathing stable and not falling harder for him than I had already.

"So what did you discuss?" I asked. "You and Jim?"

Sherlock sighed. "He won't attack the place if I let him steal my hot chocolate. Naturally, I let him have it. But it's just a bit suspicious that he was eager enough to give up because of a drink."

I nodded. "Maybe he wasn't planning on attacking anyway. Maybe he just wanted to see how your brain worked."

Sherlock pursed his lips, nodding. "That's what I'm afraid of."

We made our way back to Molly, who was leant forward in her chair, looking very white, almost translucent, and she took a deep breath as we approached.

"I'm not feeling good," she rasped, and I immediately ran over and put her arm over my shoulder, hoisting her up and running her outside. Sherlock, before joining us, helped himself to a complimentary glass of champagne, being his usual helpful self.

"Where are the loos?" I asked, and Sherlock nonchalantly motioned off into the distance with his glass after taking a sip.

"Outdoor ones are just over there." he replied, and I ran Molly over. She was beginning to gag, and, knowing I had almost no time, I made sure she was pointed away from me and my clothing, sprinting to a stall and practically dropping her in front of the toilet, relieved as she hadn't started vomiting before we got there.

"Shame," Sherlock said neutrally as he took another sip of his drink, in no rush as he slowly walked up behind us, and I turned to him suspiciously, speaking to drown out the background noise of Molly hurling into the backyard loo.

"You did it, didn't you?" I asked. "You said the word burn in a special way, and they did something to her, am I wrong?"

Sherlock glanced at me, taking another sip and tapping his fingernails against the glass. I didn't get a response, but I still had the answer. How rude. How invasive. She had invited him here, confessed her love for him, took him dancing, and in return he drugged her hot chocolate and made her vomit into a cold portable toilet in the middle of a pumpkin patch. Classy.

"John," Sherlock said. "The next stall over means trouble."

Distracted now, I looked over at what he was focused on. The stall said it was occupied, yet the door was ajar and kept moving. We walked over to it curiously, and Sherlock slowly pushed it completely open.

Mary and Jim were standing there, making out in the sloppiest way I'd ever witnessed in probably my entire life, their hair all messed up and their shirts askew. They turned to us in surprise, and I shuddered as I realised how lucky I was that I had refused a kiss from someone who's tongue had been in Jim Moriarty's mouth.

Sherlock was the first to speak. "Fascinating how things turn out."

All I could say was, "Ew."

Mary scoffed. "Well, look who's talking, deviant," she growled. "Leave us alone."

Sherlock slowly set his glass on the ground. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice low and quiet and insane. "Did you just call John a deviant?"

"Sherlock," I whispered. "It's fine."

He ignored me, moving closer to Mary. His voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper, his mouth turned up into a smile that was anything but genuine. "First you force him to kiss you, and now you're calling him disgraceful slang terms? And you think you can just get away with that?" He gave a dry laugh, stepped forward once more, and Jim slithered in between them, shaking his head.

"Oh, Sherlock," he said. "A helpless romantic. So lost. So... touchy. So easy to get to." He straightened out the collar of Sherlock's suit. "Please, if you have a problem, take it out on me." He backed up, sort of bowing and throwing his arms out to the sides of him as if in offering.

"Sherlock," I said. "Sherlock, stop."

But he still didn't listen. He shrugged out of his coat, his lean, muscular figure shown off in the light as I mindlessly took it by the collar, not even asking him to put it back on and cool down. His body was tense, his eyes mad, his face beautiful. Jim stood in front of him, fixing his crooked bow tie and brushing off his shoulders. It all came down to who would throw the first punch. The fabric felt rough against my hands as I waited absentmindedly.

"After I'm done with you," Jim said, "Maybe I'll beat up John, too."

And that was it. Sherlock's fist rose up in the air and, as if in slow motion, moved towards Jim's nose, the knuckles so strained they were white, Sherlock's face so angry you could have thought he was a maniac.

But then again, how could anyone be sure he wasn't?


	19. № 19

I kept having to remind myself not to think it, but Sherlock's lean muscles were a whole lot easier to see when he was beating someone up. I was holding his coat in my right arm, awaiting the tension and simultaneously waiting for it to be over with. Every time I moved to stop him or to break it up, he pushed me back to where I was earlier standing and gave me a warning glare as if it would pin me down or anchor me to the soil.

I had found myself repeating his name over and over again out loud in hopes that he would stop. After a few moments of him ignoring my pleas, they became more of a breathy whisper, gasping and desperate. Please don't. Please, please don't... I wasn't quite sure of exactly when they turned into silent thoughts.

Sherlock Holmes was in midair, one hand tightly gripping Jim's shirt collar, the other in a compact, clenched fist, heading straight for his nose. His body was twisted, his feet in a powerful stance, his lips pursed as his knuckles hit bone with an audible crunch, his feet sticking their landing on the ground as Jim stumbled backward. Stunned, the nemesis was knocked out of character for a moment, his eyes changing from dead to full of pain as his hands flew up to where he had been punched.

"Ow," he said quietly, looking at his palms, which were dripping with his own blood. "I feel like that was uncalled for."

"I wasn't aware that you could feel in the first place." Sherlock, hyperactively pacing in front of me, said. He was breathing quickly and shaking the pain out of his hands, making his way back to Jim and baring his teeth in fury in attempt to properly prepare for the next move. I could see his eyes moving rapidly, calculating so efficiently that even wildfire would be impressed. I watched, feeling like punching Mary in the gut but deciding against it. Besides, there were people just a few hundred yards off; someone was bound to notice something soon. So it would be better if the noticeability levels stayed as low as possible.

Jim's blood was leaking steadily down his face, dripping from his dimpled chin as he spat it off his lips. "I think you broke it," he said in monotone, touching his nose cautiously with the thin fingers on his left hand, his eyes returning from their sudden real and pained state back to their usual dead manner. "You should apologise."

Sherlock laughed dryly, his mouth not even smiling. He shook his head, gasping. "I'm not giving you any apologies."

Jim slowly stepped forward. "Oh, that's unfortunate."

"No shit," Sherlock scoffed. "It's your move."

"Oh, is it?" Jim asked with an exaggerated gasp and a tilt of his head. "I must have lost track."

He jumped forward then, tackling Sherlock backwards into the ground, grass tearing out at its roots as his shoulders dug into it, dirt spraying my shoes. Pinning my friend's arms to the ground, Jim leaned over him, opening his mouth to speak again, his blood dripping on Sherlock's face, the blood from his hands staining his sleeves.

"You know, Sherlock, I could just go for the obvious places that are weakening for the biologically male population," Jim explained nonchalantly, lifting his foot up in the air as Sherlock struggled beneath him. "But I'm not going to."

He suddenly shifted forward, flipping upside down and kicking Sherlock in the face with the heel of his shoe, making him gasp and let out a soft whine in pain as his cheek immediately bruised and his skin broke and began to bleed. My heart thumping, I clenched my hands into stone as Jim hammered his fists at Sherlock's jaw, one blow hitting his eye and another impacting his lip, making him spit out blood after it caught on his tooth. Jim wouldn't stop.

So, making a split-second decision, I bounded forward, my feet digging into the loose soil as I guarded my face with my arms, ramming Jim in the ribcage and sending him flying off of Sherlock and over to Mary, who backed away as she saw the amount of blood that had escaped his nose.

I bent over Sherlock, not knowing how much blood came from him and how much was Moriarty's, but knowing I needed to stop it and clean it up if we were to get out of there without being noticed. I tried to bite my sleeve in attempt to rip it, but it didn't work, so I searched for something - anything - to help.

That's when Mary tossed me a torn half of her thin shawl, and I gave her a thankful smile, tending to Sherlock as she tended to Jim.

Sherlock inhaled sharply as I touched his cheek, and I tried my best to be gentle, rubbing the blood off as best I could as he winced in pain. His jaw was bruised along with his cheek, and he was just beginning to show signs of a black eye. His lip had torn a bit, and it was bleeding the most out of anything, so I pressed the fabric against that as he groaned in discomfort.

"Shhhh," I said, trying to stop the bleeding. "It's alright. Just another minute or so."

He began writhing under me as his adrenaline levels subsided and his pain began to fully emerge. "John," he whined, almost sobbed. "John, please." His hands gripped my wrists and tried to pull them away from his face, and I had to push them away with my foot in order to keep the pressure on the wound. Even through the fabric, even through the blood, his lips were soft velvet beneath my thumb. If the odds weren't against me, then perhaps they would one day press against mine.

"Stay still, Sherlock," I murmured, trying to calm him down. "It's alright. You'll be okay."

"My head hurts," he said, his voice a strained whisper. "My head hurts so bad..."

"You might have a concussion," I said. "Just wait a bit. If it still hurts by the time we leave, we can go to a doctor."

"We need to tell Mycroft to look out for Moriarty," Sherlock said, clenching his teeth together to distract him from the pain.

Jim, who was walking away with Mary now, holding her shawl against his bleeding nose, turned to us. "You can tell your brother to find me," he said. "You can tell the whole world to catch up with my footsteps. But you yourself will never catch me, Sherlock. You'll see in a few decades. Just you wait."

Sherlock, ignoring him, pointed to the other outdoor toilet. "Is Molly still sick?"

I nodded. "I saw her leave just as the chaos began." Slowly, I took the fabric off his lip, and he sighed for a moment before tensing up again.

"Oh, that's worse," he said. "God, that's worse."

I handed him the shawl. "Stop moving your mouth," I said soothingly. "You'll just open it back up again. Just stay calm and still."

"My head feels like fire," he breathed, pressing the fabric back to his mouth. "I need to go see a doctor. Please, John."

I nodded. "Of course," I said, taking his soft, strong hand and pulling him slowly to his feet. He furrowed his brow in pain, bringing his other hand to his forehead and vacillating a bit on his feet. I draped his arm over my shoulders, and we slowly walked to the street, getting in a cab and heading to the clinic.

"I'm sorry," I said, "For provoking this."

Sherlock spoke even though it hurt to. "It was worth it."

I chuckled softly, and we then both watched the streetlights speed by our windows as we waited to arrive at our destination. It was worth it. I was worth it. And that felt good.


	20. № 2Ø

Why would you do this for me? I wondered in my head as we sat in a taxi on the way to the clinic. I watched Sherlock, who was in a significant amount of pain, breathing shallowly in attempt to not move so much. What am I worth to you? Really that much?

"John."

"Yes?"

"John, my head."

His eyelid was turning a nasty shade of blue now, and he was gritting his teeth against the pain, his hand pressing on his forehead. "It's so bad. It hurts. Christ, it's awful... John..." He took small, wavering intakes of breath, sharp through his teeth as he whimpered.

"Oh, Sherlock," I said. "You could have completely avoided this altogether if you had just kept your cool." I cleared my throat, making sure I still had his attention. "Speaking of keeping your cool, why is it that you lost your temper then but haven't been pissed off any other times since I've known you?"

The taxi hit a bump in the road, and Sherlock's breathing quickened, his eyes squinted in agony. "John, my head..." He sniffled, and I watched as a tear rolled slowly down his cheek. So it was bad.

Hating that he was in enough pain to cry, I immediately turned to him. "Oh, Sherlock..." I reached out and pulled him over so he was leaning on my shoulder, and I rested my cheek against his head, my right hand tangled into his hair and my left hugging his face close to my neck. His eyes widened, his cheeks reddening for a fleeting moment before he returned to the painful expression he'd worn before, as if it were set as a new default. His hands curled up, digging into the fabric of my trousers as he breathed through his clenched teeth.

"It's alright, Sherlock," I said. "I've got you. It's okay." I petted his head like I would a dog, and he calmed down just enough for me to add, "Just don't fall asleep."

"You know, John," Sherlock said, sniffling after a few minutes of calming down, "All that product made my hair very crunchy."

I smiled. "Crunchy?"

"Yes," he said, wiping his eyes with the back of his right hand. "Is your hair crunchy?"

I looked down at him. "I don't know."

"May I feel it?" he asked, reaching up to my head, and I let him ruffle my hair with his large hand. He smiled and giggled a little bit, leaning back into me. "So crunchy," he laughed. "Everything is so crunchy."

I smirked. "So am I crunchy, then?" I asked, watching his eyes look up at mine inquisitively, one half-shut and turning black, the other absolute perfection in and of itself.

"No," he replied. "You're just pretty."

"We're here," the cabbie growled, and Sherlock handed him some money while chuckling happily and slowly getting out of the car. I had him lean on my shoulder as we walked into the clinic, which was difficult with the height difference, but we managed.

He had called me pretty.

What was that supposed to mean? Anything? Was it a compliment? An insult? Or did it just come out of his mouth without any meaning or intent whatsoever? I had no idea, and I didn't want to get my hopes up, but Sherlock Holmes, the prettiest boy I'd ever seen, called me pretty. Which I'm guessing was better than crunchy.

Running my hands through my hair to straighten it out, I realised that crunchy was actually a very good word for it. It was actually very unsatisfying, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind. He kept giggling at everything, waving to people, and stepping drunkenly on my toes.

"Hello!" he called to someone walking out the door. "You alright?"

The man sort of glared back at him. "I might have colon cancer."

Sherlock laughed. "Have a good day!" he called. "I have a concussion, I think."

The poor bloke sighed and walked off, and I apologised to him as he left. Sherlock put a hand out and pushed open the front door, and I helped him stumble through the entry and to the front desk much like one would if they were inebriated. A middle-aged lady sat there, reading some papers and circling things with her pen. She looked up at us with a friendly expression.

"Hiya," she said.

"Hi!" Sherlock eagerly replied. "I think I have a concussion. You look very nice with your bright glasses. They're not crunchy."

She chuckled. "Thank you, sweet," she said. "Can I get a name?"

"But not as pretty as John," Sherlock added, patting my chest with an outstretched hand and nodding, eyes closed, appearing intoxicated. "Nobody is as pretty as John."

I gave a forced, dry, one-syllable laugh. "Let's sit you down in a chair, and I'll get you a spot, alright?" I helped him down in a seat and walked back over to the front desk.

"His name's Sherlock Holmes," I said. "I'm his flatmate."

"I see," she smiled. "And how did this-" She motioned to Sherlock with her pen, her wrist turning in a tight circle. "-happen?"

I sighed, tapping my fingers against the counter and shamefully looking down at them. "He got in a fight."

The lady nodded. "Lucky that instead of an accident at home," she said. "You can't cut your thumb off with a table-saw if you're beating someone up."

I chuckled. "That's true," I said. "I just wish he would've stayed calm."

She nodded. "It happens. Just between you and me, the most common reason for boys your age getting into brawls and tussles and coming over here is because they were fighting over a girl." In her outstretched hand, there was a clipboard with a pen, and I took it, tucking it under my arm. "We'll be ready for you in thirty minutes to an hour." she said.

"Thank you," I replied, and she gave me a small smile and got back to work on her papers. I returned to Sherlock, who was chatting with a little girl next to him. He didn't even notice that I had come back, and he was deep in conversation with her, saying very insightful and intellectual things, such as:

"Blue is better than yellow," he said, his words slurring. "I'm positive."

The girl shook her head. "Green is the best colour," she argued calmly. "It's pretty, like grass."

"Grass isn't pretty," he countered, crossing his arms. "Grass reminds me of hair. Green hair. And that's weird. You can't comb grass. You can't mow hair. Also, green is the colour of many forms of bacteria and fungi, such as mould, mildew and the slime you find under the sink every few years."

"Pink?" the girl asked.

Sherlock groaned. "Pink is so overrated," he whined, leaning back and slipping out of his chair. "No wonder girls are always so mad. Everything people try to sell them is pink. And pink is annoying." His legs were flat against the floor now, his head leant back against the seat of the chair.

"Sherlock," I said, holding up the clipboard I had been given. "We need to fill out some forms, alright? Come sit over here with me." I sat down a few seats away so as to not make if look like we were trying to kidnap the girl or something. God knows where her parents were.

Sherlock stood up, groggily pointing to me. "I'm gonna go sit with John," he said, walking over to me with a discombobulated rhythm about his step, flopping down on the chair next to me and taking the clipboard.

"I can't read this," he said, furrowing his brow as I tried to take it back. "It's too dark."

"Sherlock, you dimwit. Your eyes are closed." I reached for the clipboard again, but he swatted my hand away and huffed frustratedly when I wouldn't let him have it. He did finally open his eyes, but I was feeling too authoritative to be amused. "And you're not supposed to read if you have a concussion," I said, prying the papers out of his hands and taking them back. "You don't want to stimulate your brain."

"Or what?" he asked, crossing his arms and his legs at the same time. "What'll happen to me if I rebel, hmm?" He turned his head to me, his eyes closed again.

I puckered my lips in thought, biting the inside of my cheek. "Then you're going to explode," I said, and his mouth opened into a tiny o shape.

"Explode?" he repeated as I opened the pen and started filling in what I already knew about him on the sheet. "That's quite extreme. I think I want to die via dinosaur."

"Those are extinct, Sherlock," I reminded him. "What's your birth date?"

"They're all dead?" he asked, leaning forward. "Really?"

"Yes, really," I said. "What's your birthday?"

"Sixth January," he replied. "I thought I saw a dinosaur on telly just the other day."

"Sixth January," I repeated as I wrote it down, ignoring his dinosaur comments. "And what year?"

He stared blankly at me. "Every year," he responded as if it were too obvious, and I sighed.

"What year were you born? Christ, Sherlock..."

"1979," he said. "Why? Is that important?"

"You're eighteen?" I asked. "Most people in our year are nineteen at least."

"I started school a year early because I could read and write when I was four," he said, "and also because I deduced that Mum was pregnant with a child that Mycroft says died, and she got mad because I wasn't supposed to know, and so she made sure I was gone during the daytime so I wouldn't ruin everything."

"And did it work?" I asked.

"I stabbed a classmate in the arm with a pencil and sent him to the emergency room, and my parents had to send me to a child therapist who ended up quitting after I told her that her husband wasn't at work and was actually at a bar with exactly three other friends, so I got kicked out of school since I was a lost cause," he said, "So... no."

I wasn't surprised. "What's your middle name?" I asked, my pen on the paper, my hand waiting to move.

"Sherlock," he said.

"Oh," I replied. "So what's your full name, then?"

Clearing his throat, he sat up straight in his chair. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes," he announced loudly, holding his arms out randomly and making a few faces turn our way. "But I hate the name William, and the name Scott, so I decided to let them be."

"...Cool," I said unenthusiastically, scribbling down the cause of our visit as quickly as I could, making sure I had filled everything in, and I stood up and handed it back to the lady at the front desk. She stapled the papers together and handed them back to another person, who took the packet out of the room and brought it somewhere else.

Sherlock, in the few seconds that I was gone, had flipped over in his chair so his legs were against the back and his spine was against the seat, and his head was dangling upside down, his eyes looking unaware and almost plastered as he laughed at me walking back.

"I left you alone," I said, "for ten seconds. How did you even... come up with this?"

"I'm an astronaut." he whispered for the first time since entering the building. "Don't tell anyone. It's a secret."

I scoffed. "It's not much of a secret when you're sitting upside down on a chair in the middle of a clinic lobby."

He ignored me and made vroom vroom noises as I tried my best to flip him back upright.

There were only a few other people waiting, so we weren't in the front room for long. It seemed like forever, though, since the whole time I was following Sherlock around like a child, saying things like "Sit back down!" and "Please don't climb on top of the water fountain," and even "Now is not the time to be reciting Shakespeare." I frankly didn't want him out of his seat at all, worrying that any movement in the least could make his head worse. But he didn't listen. He was never very skilled in that division.

"Sherlock Holmes?" a lady called as she entered the waiting room. "We're ready for you."

I quickly yanked his foot out of an abandoned handbag that he was using as "Iron Man boots", guiding him over to the lady and through the doors to the office rooms. We followed her down the hall, Sherlock poking my face with an outstretched finger.

"My head doesn't hurt anymore," he said. "But it's fuzzy."

We entered a small room, the woman closing the door behind her and smiling down at us as we both settled into a chair.

"Hello," she said. "My name is Dr. Davis and I'll be helping you today!" She sat in a chair that looked a lot more comfortable than ours, scooting it in under her desk and checking some papers. "It says here that you're in for a possible concussion, is that correct?"

"Yes, he is," I confirmed as Sherlock stared off into space. "His eye and torn skin could use some assistance as well, but they're not too urgent, I hope."

"Was he hit anywhere other than the head?" the doctor asked, taking a small flashlight from the table and moving it back and forth in front of Sherlock's eyes.

"I don't think so," I said. "His opponent seemed to want to give him less temporary pain than, for example, kicking him in the bollo-"

"Definite concussion," the doctor said, scribbling down a few notes and taking a stethoscope from the wall, sticking the ends in her ear. She took the metal part and began listening to Sherlock's heartbeat, and, in the process of moving it to the other side of his chest, she was interrupted as he snapped at it with his teeth, catching it in his mouth and beginning to laugh hysterically.

"Oh, my god..." I sighed, resting my forehead in my palm and wishing he would just act normal. His laugh was very cute, though, and that took a lot more tension off of things.

Dr. Davis took the stethoscope out from between his teeth, laying it on his chest and telling him to breathe in slowly. "And how old are you two?" she asked, trying to be friendly.

I re-situated myself in my chair and answered, "He's eighteen. I'm nineteen."

"I knew you two would be around twenty," she said. "Are you starting university soon or are you taking a year off?"

"I already took a year off," I said. "I got in some good work experience and the like. It was... good."

She nodded, not seeming to listen to anything I was saying, which was annoying, since she asked a question and expected me to answer it. I crossed one leg over the other and began lightly tapping my foot on the ground, waiting for the exam to be over.

"Looks like you have a very mild concussion," she said. "Should be better within the next few days. Don't watch anything or read any books or stimulate your brain in general. Only sleep for a few hours at a time, and take it easy physically. You don't want to end up back here again."

Sherlock nodded. "Okay!" he said cheerfully and began to stand up. I ran over and made sure he was steady, taking his arm to help him balance.

To be honest, I thought that "not stimulating your brain" was impossible for Sherlock. He always had ideas and theories and memories running through his head, and it was impossible to get him to simply stop thinking. Even having him try to refrain from it would be useless. But I took her advice anyway, because she was a doctor and you should listen to those when you need to.

"When will he stop being loopy?" I asked, and she chuckled.

"Won't take too long," she said. "I suspect he'll be better tomorrow."

"Alright," I said. "Thank you so much."

We walked outside, waiting for a taxi. Sherlock was still leaning on me, even though he was fully capable of standing by now, and I let him.

"You know, John," he said, looking at the darkening sky ahead of us. "I really like you."

Turning my head to look at him, I asked, "How do you mean?"

He shrugged. "The less logical part of my brain says that you're very cute. That part of my brain can also be very loud." He giggled again. "I think it's right, though."

My stomach fluttering a bit, a twinge of hope passing through my thoughts, I swallowed and shook my head. "You must have really hit your head hard, Sherlock," I said. "Let's get you home."

Hailing a taxi, I helped him into the backseat, sitting next to him and giving the cabbie our address. Sherlock leant against the window, staring off at no particular object whatsoever, and sighed.

"Just so you know, John," he said, "Even when my brain isn't injured, I really do think you're very cute."


	21. № 21

I awoke to the early morning sunlight hitting my face, reminding myself to get some effective curtains sometime. Sitting up in bed, I slowly let myself wake up completely, rubbing my face with my hands and standing up, walking out of the bedroom into the bright light from the window. Sherlock was sitting in a chair facing it, one eye dark because of a restrictive sleep schedule, the other eye dark from the fight. He held a cup of what smelled like coffee in his right hand, smiling at me as I entered the room.

"Hello, John."

"Hi," I yawned, my bare feet hitting the sunlit floor with soft thuds as I went to sit next to him. "How are things?"

"Wonderful," he said. "Would you like to know why?"

I nodded, watching him take a sip of coffee before pointing out the window and saying, "Look."

Following the direction in which he was pointing, I walked over to the window and looked out. Everything was white. Rooftops, the streets, trees, benches... Even the tops of cars were still covered in bright white.

"It snowed!" I said. "It's so pretty." I leant against the window, my chin resting on my palm as I looked out. The sky was even white, and it almost hurt to look at. This much snow didn't happen often at all. Usually if it snowed, it just barely covered the ground.

"Isn't it?" Sherlock said, slowly standing up and walking over to me. He stood by my side, wearing thick wool tracksuit bottoms, a loose shirt and a blue dressing gown that served as more of a replacement for his coat than anything else. We both watched the stillness below, becoming so contagiously silent ourselves that I thought I could hear my own pulse.

Sherlock took another sip of coffee, placing the cup down on the windowsill and pursing his lips. "I want to go walk in it," he said.

"What about your head?" I asked. "You got a concussion three days ago, Sherlock. You're supposed to be laying low."

He shrugged. "I think I'm almost completely recovered. I could stand a stroll on a beautiful day like today. Quick, let's get outside before everyone's footprints ruin it." He cautiously and carefully rushed to the door, grabbing both our coats and putting his on. I hesitantly took mine and put my arms through the sleeves, zipping it up to the bottom of my collarbone.

I opened our door as Sherlock tied his scarf around his neck - just the way I'd taught him, too - and walked out next to me, standing silently as I locked the door behind us and stepped in synchronisation with him him as we made our way, side by side, down the hall, my arms tense and ready to catch him if he stumbled at all at any point in time. He seemed to be alright, however, but I still thought it was best to be prepared.

Many people were moving in today. Classes started in just a few days, so the lift was fully occupied with people and bags and luggage, and we couldn't even fit in the lift at all. Not only that, but with all the stops it would make, we could easily walk down the stairs faster. We would also avoid all the stares we would have received if everyone saw the bruises and black eye belonging to my companion. Therefore, taking the stairs was a better option. So that's what we decided to do.

It was a very silent trip, and every time we would reach a new flight of stairs, I would grip Sherlock's arm tightly in my hand so he wouldn't fall. He focused on his feet going on each stair, his shoes hitting them with a soft clopping sound, and I couldn't be sure if he even knew my hand was there in the least. Did I want him to? Maybe.

Reaching the ground floor, I opened the door to outside, cold, still air immediately surrounding me as we exited the building. Our breath was visible in front of us, and I already felt my nose growing cold. It was freezing. No wonder it had snowed.

The snow itself wasn't as deep as it had looked from the window. In fact, it barely even covered the short-cut grass, and it didn't get my trainers wet where it would count. But it was still pretty. I stood silently, feasting my eyes on the scene before us as the cold air tried to make it through my jacket.

"John, look at this," Sherlock said, his voice filled with interest and possibly even awe. Catching my attention, I turned around to see what it was that he was talking about.

"What is it, Sh-" I began to ask before my voice was cut off by something I should have seen coming before I even turned around.

A bunch of snow hit my face, exploding out and shooting fragments into my hair and down my coat. I gasped, as if it hadn't been obvious what was happening, and brushed off my face with my hands.

"That was..." I giggled a little bit. "That was evil."

Sherlock laughed, his arm still in a victorious post-throwing position, and I narrowed my eyes with a smirk.

"You're about to be pelted to the floor of the earth, young man," I said dramatically, making my voice deep and raspy like I was some sort of assassin on telly. I slowly began to crouch to the ground, my hands reaching for the snow, watching Sherlock's triumphant smile as the snow melted and dripped off my nose in slow, small beads of clear water. And, suddenly, in a split decision, I decided to forget about the snow and dive for Sherlock instead, pushing him down and making sure to catch his head as he hit the ground, watching him laugh in surprise and flop his arms down beside him.

"You got me," he said, and I pinned his shoulders to the ground.

"Now I'm not going to get off," I said, "because I'm afraid you're going to do something back."

"How long can you really hold that position?" Sherlock asked playfully. "Do you have secret abs?" He raised his eyebrows. "Hmm?"

"Shut up," I replied, now suddenly determined to be in the same position for as long as humanly possible. "You know, I could just sit down on top of you."

"It's 1997," Sherlock replied. "People might talk."

I snorted without meaning to, laughing a little and my muscles beginning to grow tired. I almost wish they could just give out, so I'd fall right on top of him, my lips possibly colliding with his on the way down, just to feel what they were like. But that was unrealistic, and I told myself to forget it. That sort of occurrence was something only seen in films. It didn't happen in real life, and if it did, it certainly wouldn't work.

Sherlock's eyes diverted to the sky, and he looked back at me. "John," he said. "Look up."

"Why would I look up?" I said. "You have the potential to hit me with a snowball again."

His voice was liquid and warm as he smiled innocently at the sky, his curls flopping back off of his face and into my hands. "Because it's snowing."

Looking up above us, I watched in silent awe as snowflakes began to fall around ourselves, my body rolling to the side and off of Sherlock, not even caring much that my trousers were getting wet and my hair was being mixed with the precipitation on the ground. The snow was beautiful, each flake sparkling soundlessly as it floated down to us, some appearing blue, some white, some glinting yellow or pink. It landed gracefully on my eyelashes, and I didn't dare blink it off.

Sherlock laughed softly, making my heart twist a bit as I watched his face light up at the sight of the sky. He reached his arm upward, his fingers stretched out, as if he were trying to shake it's hand. Hello, he would say. I'm Sherlock Holmes and I can tell your whole life story because I'm magnificent and fantastic and very clever.

Could he deduce the sky?

Could he, in question, look at a star and know where it'd been? Was it possible to tell where else the clouds above us had rained?

Thoughts like these made me feel so small, so insignificant knowing that, in the big scheme of things, it wouldn't make much of a difference if I had never existed in the first place.

Why was I so uptight about life? Why couldn't I simply let go of all the regulations that restricted my being and just live?

Why couldn't I forget what my parents wanted of me? Why could I never forget the phrase "don't be gay"? I was an adult. Of course, according to Sherlock, I wasn't, because the frontal lobe of the male brain isn't done growing until about thirty years old, but I was living without my family. And, knowing their dysfunctional tendencies, chances of seeing them anytime soon were slim anyway. And it was 1997; people could be whatever they wanted. Why was I so obsessed with pleasing my family?

Perhaps I was scared of my father. Not like he could do much if I told him I liked a boy; he was so hungover all the time that he was immobile and mute anyway.

Or maybe I was scared of rejection.

If I ever told Sherlock that I thought he was beautiful and gorgeous and clever and adorable and that I wanted to taste his lips and feel his hands trailing down my back, I could ruin absolutely everything. Even if he was gay, why would he like me? I had nothing to offer. I wasn't stunning or slim or intelligent. Maybe I'd ruin our friendship. Maybe he'd want a new flatmate. Maybe our deal would be over and he'd stop eating again and find a new boy, maybe a prettier one with more brains, and replace me completely. Although I'd bet he'd find a girl instead.

Rejection was, I concluded, a far bigger problem than maddening and worrying your parents for a day or so. Especially when so much was at stake.

But more than that, more than anything, I knew deep down that what I feared the most was watching him look down and stay agonisingly silent for a very long time, and finally looking back up at me with pain in his eyes as he would say:

"I'm sorry, John. I can't return your feelings."

That would be a nightmare. It would be so close to hell that I would feel the fire in my chest for a very long time.

And that was the risk I was too afraid to take.

"John," Sherlock said, leaning on his elbow and looking down at me. "Are you alright?"

I swallowed, noticing how tense my face and jaw were, trying to relax them and trying to stay out of my thoughts. "Yes," I said. "I'm just, um... cold."

"Oh," he replied, looking relieved. He laid back down on the snow, his arm outstretched. "C'mere," he said. "We can face the cold like those arctic tuxedo birds."

"Penguins?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, slowly adding "...penguins." as an afterthought, dragging out each sound for a moment too long, almost as if he had trouble saying it.

Accepting his offer, I moved in closer to him, feeling his arm hug me so tightly to him that I could feel the shape of his body, the way his ribs curved down to his waist. I could smell his skin. I could feel his warmth.

His fingers gently held me close by the elbow, his arm wrapping under my neck and keeping me pressed against him. Feeling his breath, I slowed mine down, focusing less and less on worrying and more and more on the fact that Sherlock Holmes was lying next to me in the snow, his arm pulling me over so I was snugly pressed against his body and perhaps even his soul itself, my face burrowed against his chest, my heart wishing to touch his as well.


	22. № 22

"It was obviously an affair," Sherlock said nonchalantly, flicking his finger against the edge of the table. "Because she was clearly unhappy with her marriage. Have you seen the live interviews?"

We had been discussing this for the past ten days, since the moment we had learnt that it happened.

"Hopefully you don't go out saying this in public," I replied, resting my jaw on my palm, my elbow pushing against the hard wooden tabletop. "People are still shaken up, you know."

"So the real question is: what was he not providing her as a husband? Sex? It's usually sex that makes people seek new partners-"

"I think you should shut up, actually," I said. "Diana was, and still is, worthy of our respect, especially now-"

"She's dead now."

"-so we don't have to discuss her sex life," I said. "It's disrespectful."

"I wonder how quickly Charles will remarry."

"Shut. Up." I said. "Christ. Have some empathy."

He crossed his arms, huffing a disappointed breath out through his mouth like a stubborn child. He wasn't one for empathy. I suppose that was something I'd best get used to.

10th September, 1997

So I'll admit it: I have a crush on Sherlock Holmes.

He has a cute giggle, and he only likes sandwiches if they're cut horizontally, and he has an intense amount of adoration towards small or young things, such as tiny buttons and kittens. Sometimes when he smiles, his mouth makes a v shape and his eyes light up a little more and he continues eye contact a bit longer.

He called his mum the other day on the telephone, and he leant back against the wall and put his free hand in his pocket, and, though it was covered by a stoic expression, I knew he felt like smiling. And he told her he loved her. And she hung up first.

It's the little things that he does that make me like him even more. Since the snow hasn't quite melted, he's been playing Christmas songs on his violin, even though he doesn't even celebrate the holiday. I think the snow will be gone by tomorrow, and thank God for that. I wouldn't want to be bored of Christmas music in three and a half months when it actually happens.

Classes have started. He hasn't told me directly, but I think he's majoring in some sort of physics-related thing. I don't know. He doesn't answer boring questions like that.

There was a knife sticking into the table.

There used to be letters that were impaled between the knife and the wood, but I had taken them out to read them. The knife seemed to be a bit stuck, and both of us were afraid to pull it out in case the momentum was too much and it would end up hurting someone. We also agreed that we wouldn't stab knives into tables anymore, although that was mostly my decision.

"So," I said, sitting across from Sherlock and staring at the exposed and sharpened blade of the knife. "Are you going to take Molly skating, then?" I motioned to one of the letters that had been stabbed, the return address correlating with Molly's room.

Sherlock sort of frowned down at it, furrowing his brow and weaving his fingers together. "I haven't got much of a choice."

"Well, of course you have," I said. "You aren't obligated to it. It's a simple invitation."

He sighed and leant back in his chair, fiddling with the lacerated envelope of Molly's letter, turning it around in his hands. Looking up at me from his position, he asked, "Will you be coming?"

I shrugged. "Why should that matter?"

Sherlock opened and closed the letter, creasing it backwards along the table. "Well, it all depends on whether or not you'll be joining me."

Joining 'me'.

Not joining 'us'.

His exact words as well. I know I didn't mishear them. Otherwise I wouldn't have written them down. Maybe it's a bit of a stretch, but that could have been an invitation for just the two of us. I wish.

I tapped my finger on the edge of the table, furrowing my brow at him. "I shouldn't have anything to do with your date with someone else. Do you want to go or not?"

"Well, do you?" Sherlock reflected, and we stared blankly at each other for a long time, both of us feeling quite annoyed with each other. Finally, I sighed.

"Sure," I said. "That'll be fun."

"Perfect," he replied, standing up and walking to the bedroom before stepping back and asking, "What's today, John?"

"Tenth September," I said. "Wednesday."

He didn't respond or even react to my answer, and I began to wonder if he had heard me at all as he went into our bedroom and pulled the door shut, the latch clicking as it closed.

That's another thing about him, too. He never knows the date. Even though it's something he uses every day, writing down random notes on the notepad by the microscope or writing short research papers. He always asks me what it is, as if he does it for more of a reason than just knowing the day. As if he does it because of me.

But then again, why would I be of any interest to him in that way? Obviously I'm interested in him like that, and his cheekbones themselves are good proof even alone. But I don't have cheekbones. I don't have a stunning figure. I'm not unique. Not at all.

Standing up, I went to the phone and dialled Molly's number, which she had written in the letter, one of the numbers torn in half from the knife at a diagonal. I listened to the ringing as I enviously read and reread the card. If only I had this much courage. If only I could ask to take him out. If only he would want to go with me.

"Hello?" Molly asked, picking up the phone. I stood, looking down at the thick paper in my hands, the telephone pressed between my left shoulder and my ear.

"Hi, Molly," I said. "It's John."

"Oh," she said, sounding disappointed. "Hi."

I awkwardly fumbled with the envelope, putting the letter back into it and tossing it onto the table. "Sherlock says we'll come," I said. "He wants me to tag along again. I'm sorry."

"Oh, yeah," she said, sounding dejected. "Okay."

Molly, on the other hand, is very unique. She has a small, happy laugh that spreads optimism throughout the room. She has nice features, a sweet and soft face, and she cares so much about people. She deserves Sherlock. Not me.

But then again, does she really deserve him? He's so cold to her, and she keeps forgiving him over and over again, even though he hurts her every time. It wouldn't last. She deserves someone who would give her the care and companionship she needs. And Sherlock wouldn't do that. Not for her. He had someone drug her cocoa, for Christ's sake.

"Hey," I said, "Are you really sure you want to do this with him? He wasn't very nice to you last time." I pursed my lips and scuffled my feet, hoping for more than one reason that she would say no.

There was a small silence on the other end, so short that it was almost unnoticeable, but very obvious at the same time. The kind of silence where you can feel the tension, hear the thoughts, see the doubt in it. The kind of silence where, if you didn't know Molly, you would brush it off and not even notice that it was quiet.

"Yes," she said. "Of course I want to go."

"Okay," I said. "I'll see you."

I think he's too afraid to say no. I think he's too afraid to tell her he's not interested, so he tries to make her uninterested instead. Because he cares too much. Even though he covers it with a very meticulous and almost unbreakable façade, he is, internally, one of the most sensitive, most emotional people I think I've ever known.

Molly hung up. Neither of us said goodbye, as if we both telepathically agreed upon the suspicions of Sherlock's intentions but were both too afraid to say it aloud, not wanting to accept the most likely reality. But she hung up coldly, like that wasn't the only reason. Like she was cross with me. Maybe she thought I was competing with her. Maybe she thought I was doing a good job. Perhaps not.

I wish I had Molly's courage. I wish I had her passion, her originality, her personality. I wish I were pretty and cute and loveable. Sometimes I even wish I were a girl, so I could even have a chance with Sherlock. Because, if people like me are the only options in the male division, I'm sure he isn't gay. Why would he be?

I hung the phone back on the wall.


	23. № 23

"John."

Half-asleep, I didn't want to open my eyes. I couldn't move. I was too tired to try.

"John."

After a few moments and a slow, deep breath, I was able to mutter, "What?"

"Molly got sick again. She cancelled." His hand was on my shoulder. It was warm.

"Well, there's no reason to get up, then," I said, "so let me bloody sleep!" I pulled the covers over my head and turned to the other side of the bed.

"But there is a reason," Sherlock said. "Because we're going anyway."

My eyes slowly opened. "Just us?" I asked, feeling my cheeks heat up a bit, hoping they weren't too obviously red.

His voice was deep and liquid. "Yes."

"Why?"

He didn't seem prepared for this question, so after a few moments, he replied, "Because it'll be fun."

"Do you promise not to drug any hot chocolate?" I mumbled, my eyes half-closing again. He kind of chortled, his hand leaving my shoulder but trailing down my arm a bit as it did so.

"I only drug things if I want to get rid of people," he said. "Why would I want to get rid of you?"

I'm sure it was meant to be rhetorical, but I answered anyway. "Because I'm nobody special. I don't deserve this."

He was silent for a few moments, not knowing what to say. I could feel his eyes on me. I could hear his breathing. In a fleeting second, I began to wonder what his breath would feel like against my skin. But I shooed the thought away, and focused on other things. Like the fact that it was already 10:37 and I hadn't woken up yet. Or perhaps the fact that I was about to turn down what was practically a date with Sherlock fucking Holmes. And I would not do that. That was a bad idea.

"Fine," I reluctantly said, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. "I'll come."

He made the cute v-shaped smile that I loved and rushed to the doorway between our room and the kitchen.

"Wait." I said, a million things running through my head. Would now be a good time to tell him? To let him know how I felt? Just in case he wanted to back out of our agenda, was it a good time to let him know how much I wanted him?

He turned his head instead of his body to face me, his shoulder blades poking out against his ironed, button-up shirt, the muscles in his neck making their own existence very obvious. "Yes, John?"

I swallowed, avoiding his greenish-bluish gaze and clenching my jaw. I'd ruin everything. Absolutely every moment we'd ever shared, and every moment we'd ever share again, would be tainted by what I wanted so badly to say. So, again, I decided not to.

"Is Molly sick again because of you?" I asked, and he shook his head.

"I don't know the cause this time," he said. "But she is quite naïve and superstitious, so I'm sure, at some point, she'll take the two sicknesses as a omen and stop asking me to take her on elaborate dates that I'm blatantly uninterested in."

I was stunned by his frank comment, and I stayed frozen as he left the room, closing the door behind him. Then, reality sinking in that I was replacing his date because he asked me to, I forgot about his rude monologue and smiled stupidly at the wall, getting up and trying to make myself look presentable.

Throwing on a jumper and some jeans, I smoothed back my hair and stepped out into the main room of the flat, Sherlock waiting for me with a plate of eggs and toast.

"I didn't start a grease fire this time," he said.

"Oh, wonderful," I replied. "I was just going to say, we're out of baking soda from the last eight times you did start a grease fire, so it's a good thing you didn't, because there's no way we'd be able to put it out."

Sherlock giggled sheepishly, handing me a plate and taking one for himself. I thanked him, sitting down across from him at the table and starting to consider trying to get that knife out of it.

We ate in silence, Sherlock's eyes on me as he slowly ate his small portion of food. Whenever I looked up at him, he would look away, which was fine, because then I could look at him until he met my eyes again. It was like a rotating game. I was just probably a lot more romantically invested.

"Fun fact," Sherlock said, resting his fork down on the table and leaving his plate alone, leaning back in the wooden chair and weaving his fingers together. "The frontal lobe, also known as the prefrontal cortex, which is positioned in the head behind the frontal bone in the skull, isn't finished developing until about twenty-five to thirty years of age, so any alcohol or other harmful and otherwise addictive substances shouldn't be consumed until then in order to prevent brain deterioration."

"Fun fact," I replied. "When I met you, you were smoking."

"If my brain deteriorates, then maybe I'd be more of a normal human being," Sherlock countered. "I don't have much to lose."

"Except for your brain, the most important organ in your whole body," I said. "And your lungs, actually. And, by the way, why aren't you eating?"

He shrugged. "Not hungry."

"You're underweight, Sherlock," I said. "And you promised."

He pursed his lips into a thin line, exhaling loudly through his nose and reluctantly picking his fork back up, his thin fingers so slow it looked like he was in pain. Perhaps he was. He glanced up at me, as if to remind me that he had, after all, gained one pound since we made our little agreement, but it was only one, and he looked back down at his hands in defeat, his eyes resting on his watch.

"Oh, look at the time," he said suddenly, checking his watch and sticking the fork straight down into the table next to the knife. I gasped in irritation as he nonchalantly stood up and took his coat from over by the door.

"You can't just-" I began to almost whine before he cut me off.

"Oh, but I can," he interrupted, tossing me my coat and tying his scarf around his neck, his hand impatiently wrapped around the doorknob. "I'll eat," he then assured me, opening the door as I slipped my trainers on and huffed past him.

"You even made food for yourself," I said. "And you just left it? There are starving people down in Africa, for Christ's sake, Sherlock!"

"There are starving people everywhere, John," he pointed out. "Except for the States, apparently. Did you hear about their child obesity crisis-"

"No. That's... That's not my point. Please just..." I sighed, squinting my eyes shut and avoiding his gaze. "I really want you to take care of yourself. Because I care about you, and it's important to me that you don't starve yourself to death."

He stood in front of me, his long, slender legs completely still, his gloved hand curled slightly at the fingertips. "You..."

I looked up at him, seeing how confused he appeared. He stared off into space, his right hand clenching his empty glove, his brow furrowed, his eyes pointed in a random point on the wall.

"You care about me?"

His eyes met mine, and my heart leapt as I saw the emotion hidden behind them, the sentiment leaking out past his guard. How did he not know before? How was he not aware that I really cared about him as a person and that I wanted for him to be looked out for? Had I not made that clear enough? I mentally kicked myself for not being open enough about that.

I nodded. "Of course, Sherlock," I said. "I do care. A lot."

He looked down at his shoes, his expression a bit lighter, but still as shocked. "I like knowing that."

I smiled at him, motioning ahead of us and beginning to walk forward. We quietly made our way down to the ground floor, stepping outside into the brisk air and hailing a taxi. And when I say that we hailed a taxi, I mean that he hailed a taxi. Because he was tall. And I was not.

There was still snow on the ground, and I liked that. I had expected for it to melt by now, but here it was. Weather didn't care about what people thought. It just did what it wanted. And I quite liked that. Sometimes I wished I was like the weather. I wouldn't have to be kind or accommodating or poised or heterosexual. I could just be free.

If Sherlock heard my thoughts, he would tell me that I should stop using personification to set goals for myself. Perhaps he would be right. But I wouldn't tell him my thoughts for that very reason, so I didn't need to acknowledge this.

"Do you think it's still frozen over?" I asked. "The ice, I mean."

Sherlock glanced my way. "Obviously."

I nodded, clearing my throat and looking away, tapping my fingers on my knee. "Do you think we'll run into Jim and Mary again?"

Not that I wanted to see them. Because, well... I actually did want to see them. Because I wanted to see Jim's nose. And I wanted to force that little black pill down Mary's throat, even though she was a lady. I didn't care what her gender was. Even though Mum taught me to respect a girl, I nevertheless wanted to witness revenge. I wanted to touch it and hold it in my hand. And I wanted to smack it on their faces and laugh.

Sherlock looked out of his window. "It's possible, but, after last time, I think Mary would be too decent not to avoid any similar situations. Moriarty, on the other hand..."

"Why do you call him Moriarty?" I asked. "Why not just... Jim?"

"Because he's so evil," Sherlock sneered. "I'd never want to tell someone that someone named Jim gave me a black eye. I'd want to say that Moriarty gave me a concussion. It sounds cooler. I'm sure he'd think so as well."

New to the fact that Sherlock had just casually used the word cooler in a sentence, I could only say "Oh," as I juggled the concept in my mind. What else did he say that I didn't know about? Sharp? Wicked? Groovy? Neat? I could actually imagine him using all four.

Both of us going silent, my mind trailed off and remembered back to a few days ago when I was surprised to learn how much Sherlock loved bees. There had been a bumblebee on the floor that had died in the flat, and he brought it to the table and stared down at it for a while before gently wrapping it in a small, thin cloth and burying it in one of our house plants. He could have easily fed it to the carnivorous plant in the bedroom, but upon my asking why he didn't, he said he would rather have it eat leftover meat or houseflies rather than a bee.

I smiled as I thought about that. When I'd met him, he had seemed hard and unemotional, a stoic mask covering every small inch of his skin. Little did I know how sentimental he actually was when you spent time with him. I was glad we lived together. Very, very glad.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Hmm?" I said, turning to face him.

"You're smiling."

"Oh," I said. "Was I?" I felt my cheeks flush a bit. Shit.

"I thought I had missed something." The shadows hit his cheekbones in small, upside-down triangles. It made him look older. And it made him look hot. If he was to look like that in his forties, I wanted to stick around. I wondered what I would look like in my middle-aged years. Time would tell.

"I, um," I swallowed nervously. "I was just thinking of when you buried the bumblebee. I thought that was cute."

Bloody hell.

I'd said cute.

He probably noticed my face blush bright red. He probably noticed the word cute. He probably knew exactly what it meant.

He nodded. "I thought it was a cute bee, too. Bees are so... fuzzy. If they were bigger, I might like to keep one and pet it."

I sighed in relief, nodding as if I were actually following - and agreeing with - the conversation. Personally, I thought of bees as just any regular insect. Just the more painful and colourful version of a fly. But I wasn't going to burst his bubble, and I also wasn't going to let him know that I thought he was cute.

"Do you think they'd be friendly?" Sherlock asked. "Would they still want to fly? They'd be a good form of transportation that way." He looked as if he were calculating things in his head. "But their wings are designed to be able to carry their weight alone, not a passenger. But if you had multiple bees and a sort of carriage layout, then they could distribute your weight between them and it would still work, most likely. You wouldn't be able to go for long, though, since they would get tired, so flying high or long-distance would be dangerous-"

"We've arrived," the cabbie interrupted, seeming to be annoyed with the conversation about bees. He did a good job shutting us up by simply pulling the taxi over to the side of the road and having us get out. I paid as Sherlock straightened his coat and waited for me to join him.

"Just so you know," he said, "I've actually never skated before. And I'm..." He laughed softly. "I think I'm afraid."

I smiled up at him. "You? Afraid of skating? You track down serial killers for a hobby, and this scares you?" I chuckled. Of all things in the world...

Sherlock shrugged and took his wallet out of his pocket, making his coat swish around as if to show off how incredibly stylish his trousers were. We walked up to the front desk, where we rented skates and brought them to the benches outside the rink. His feet were so much bigger than mine. Of course, he was taller, but I was still surprised for some reason. Maybe I just had small feet.

I tied the laces tight around my legs, making sure Sherlock's were as well, and eagerly stood up, the sharpened blades catching on the rubber mats below us.

"Ready?" I said. "I'll teach you."

He looked nervous, his pale skin almost glowing as he anxiously looked up at me from his seat on the bench. "I suppose so," he replied, slowly standing up and teetering on his feet for a short moment before cautiously walking next to me over to the ice.

He held on to the wall for dear life as he stood atop the rink, watching me skate around him and urge him to let go.

"Come on!" I encouraged him. "You can't learn if you can't let go of the bloody fence."

Each of his fingers, one by one. Lifted off of the upright wooden planks, and he stood completely still, his arms at his sides, his legs straight and stiff. I stood in front of him, pointing my feet out a bit.

"If you position your feet like this," I said, "you'll be able to push yourself along. You can start by sort of waddling if you're too scared, but once you gain momentum you'll be able to skate normally. If you want to stop, I've found the most effective way is to turn to the side whilst going in the same direction. Can you do that, do you think?"

He clenched his jaw. "I'm scared." His eyes were wide, his nose red from the cold, his breath huffing out in small clouds as he nervously looked at my feet.

"It's alright," I said. "Just try. You're completely safe."

Putting one foot ahead of him, he unconfidently pushed himself forward, his arms flailing out as he panicked at the movement. Watching him lean forward, I grabbed his arm before he fell down.

"You're doing great," I said. "Remember that balancing is the most important part. Focus on where your centre is, and keep it steady."

He wobbled a bit, straightening himself back up and following my instruction.

"People are looking at me," he whispered. "It's annoying."

I found that he always used the word annoying when he was pretending he didn't care. It made him seem so fragile, since he said it so often. And I knew him well enough to be sure of it. I watched how his eyes moved, how wide they were stretched open, how slightly his perfectly-shaped lips would quiver after saying it.

"Ignore them," I said. "Just one foot after another. It's alright." I waited patiently as my friend slowly moved forward, his legs vacillating and almost buckling completely, his arms catching him before he hit the ground. My hand had caught him, too. I think I had been holding my breath.

"John, I'm awful at this," Sherlock said. "I'm sorry."

I chuckled. "Don't apologise. Just try again. I'm here to catch you." I held out my hands as if I were trying to show him proof. He closed his eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath, and almost fell. Again.

"John?" he asked, anxiety peaking in his voice.

"Yes?"

"May I hold your hand?" he asked, his eyes glossed over with fear and insecurity. I felt my cheeks grow red again. "Just so I don't fall?" he added. "Please, John?"

Watching the expression on his face, I nodded, flustered, and gave him my hand, which he grasped eagerly onto with his closest one. He was wearing the gloves I had given him, but I still imagined the warmth of his thin, bony fingers to the point where I thought that - perhaps - I really felt it.

I hoped that the colouring in my face didn't make me look too obviously in love. Hopefully everyone would just assume it was from the cold. Not like they would pay much attention to me anyway.

But Sherlock was paying me attention. He gripped tightly to my hand, copying my exact movements as I helped him move along, and my breath caught in my throat as he laced his fingers between mine.


	24. № 24

Had I imagined it? Had he really held my hand?

I could still feel his fingers overlapping with mine, even though I was holding a cup of hot chocolate - which wasn't drugged - in my hands instead. The only evidence I gathered that he had actually held my hand the way I thought he had was the bunch of stares we had received from the straight couples skating past. Homosexuality wasn't fully acceptable yet, and many people still grimaced at the sight of even a hint at it. They frowned at our hands, so I knew it had been real.

But I also knew that there was no way in hell that Sherlock liked me back. So why did I let every touch give me butterflies? I should stop, I told myself. It's not real.

The hot chocolate tasted a bit weird. It was the cheap kind that's made with powder and water, and it was nowhere near the taste of the real kind with the milk and the cocoa powder and the sugar. But the world was cold, and so was I, so I drank it anyway, just to feel warmer. I was sure that Sherlock would let me borrow his scarf, but I didn't want him to get cold, and I didn't voice my complaints because I knew he would insist on me taking it.

Looking over at him, I held back a giddy smile as I saw his face, looking out into the crowd of people, the tip of his nose and his cheeks pink from the cold. It was hard to tell how pale his skin was until I actually saw colour on it. Perhaps he was a ghost. But I knew ghosts didn't get cold. I didn't even think ghosts existed, though I was deathly afraid of them as a child.

I remember constantly asking Harry to check the closets for spirits before I went to sleep. She would, obediently, knowing that there was no such thing. She was, after all, ten years older than I was. She was a lot kinder back then. I wondered for a moment why she'd changed so drastically.

But I didn't have to think for long, because I knew it was Father.

"Something on your mind?" Sherlock asked, and I sighed.

"Just my family," I replied, looking down at my hands. They were bare, and the cold air was slowly turning them red. "Well, just is an understatement. I've been thinking about them nonstop. And they're a large burden to carry in my thoughts."

"I'm sorry," he said genuinely before sipping his hot cocoa, his jaw becoming more defined as he tilted his head back to get all of it that was stuck at the bottom of his cup.

I shrugged. "It's alright. Can't change anything, so why bother complaining? One day, they'll all be dead, anyway." I touched my hot paper cup to the outside of my fingers to warm them up, feeling Sherlock's eyes on my face. I looked back, and he glanced away, trying to pretend he wasn't looking.

"You should wear my gloves today," he said, changing the subject before I could say anything.

"No, that's okay," I said. "But thank you."

"Your hands are cold."

"I'd bet yours are, too. Keep them. Please." I finished my hot chocolate, and we both stood up to go throw them in the rubbish bin, the show crunching under our shoes as we had already changed out of our skates.

"John, if you're cold, then I want you to wear them."

I sighed. "I'm not cold."

He raised his eyebrows. "I'm sure I'm warmer than you."

Knowing I would lose this argument but still not wanting to, I replied, trying to keep my case strong. "They're too big."

Sherlock began taking the gloves off, pulling one finger at a time just like a princess would on telly. Repeating myself, I kept trying to refuse. "They're too big," I said again, a bit weaker this time.

"But you gave them to me," he countered, handing them to me with an outstretched hand. "Unless your hands have shrunk, you will fit these perfectly fine."

I sighed, hesitantly giving in and taking them. My hands were cold, after all. "Thank you." I said. He nodded.

He had nice hair. That was something I half-envied of him. It was in perfect s-shaped swoops, and I knew it was softer than fresh wool because of the time I touched it when he got a concussion. His hair was perfect even when he woke up. And I would know.

Watching his eyes focus on something a distance away, I followed his gaze to watch the people skating. He was most likely - what did he call it? Deducing people? He was using deduction on them.

But once I looked a bit closer, I realised that he wasn't telling someone's life story. He was trying to understand his own.

Because, on the far side of the rink, there was Jim.

And he was holding the hand of none other than Molly Hooper.

"Hmm," I said. "I suppose she wasn't sick after all."

Sherlock nodded. "How charmingly predictable."

I turned to face him. "Predictable? Wha-"

But before any more words could escape my mouth, Sherlock was off, walking across the ice in his shiny black shoes, his coat flowing behind him in the breeze as he made his way toward the two. I followed close behind, the bottoms of my trainers sticking slightly to the ice and peeling back off each time I took a step.

"Hey!" a voice called from outside the rink. "No shoes on the ice!"

"I'll go barefoot if you want!" Sherlock called back, but his voice was lost in the crowd of people surrounding us.

Molly, who just noticed us, gasped and covered her mouth with her hand, her face going red. We reached them both, Sherlock paying little attention to her and most to Jim, who was smiling up at us, his nose bruised and supported by a small white strip going across it.

"Enjoy your hot beverage?" he asked lightheartedly, though Sherlock and I knew very well that his intentions weren't well. Regardless, Sherlock nodded, thanking him politely.

Then, turning to Molly, he said, "Glad to see you're over your illness so soon."

Molly looked down at the ice beneath us, her face still red with embarrassment and shame. "I'm sorry," she said weakly. "It's just... Jim was so nice, and... I just felt like you were on the date just so you could be with John, and so I decided..."

"What?" I asked. "We're not-"

"So it's mutual, then?" Sherlock asked Molly, professionally holding out his hand which she slowly shook, nodding her head.

"And you're dating Jim?" Sherlock asked, looking a bit upset.

Molly nodded. "Oh, Sherlock, I apologise if you're jealous, or... disappointed. I really didn't mean to reject you in such a way, and-"

"I'm not jealous," Sherlock replied. "Why would I be jealous?"

There was a short silence, and I cleared my throat. "Not good," I whispered. "Rude, actually. Disrespectful."

"But I'm not jealous," Sherlock reasoned back at me. "Just looking out for her safety."

Molly laughed nervously, her grip on Jim's arm slowly loosening. "Safety?"

"I'm sorry, Molly," I said. "Never mind everything he just said. Enjoy your date. Let's go, Sherlock."

I felt my body begin to feel exhausted, likely from all the skating, so we made our way back to the benches, ordering even more hot chocolate to warm ourselves up.

Jim was staring at us the entire time, a sick smirk tugging at the right side of his mouth as his expressionless black eyes watched us.

Beginning to feel tired, I curled up on the bench, leaning on Sherlock's shoulder as he put his hot chocolate down on the ground and began losing muscle control, his head flopping down as he tried his best to keep it up, both of our eyes drooping.

"How long were we skating for?" I asked, and he shook his head with all the physical strength he could muster.

"John," he said. "I think there were drugs in the cocoa after all."

I bit back a sassy remark, mostly because I didn't have the strength to force it out of my mouth. At least Sherlock wasn't the person who'd drugged it this time.

"Just don't fall asleep," I said, but Sherlock was beginning to hyperventilate, his pupils dilated almost fully as his skin turned even paler than before.

"Oh, no," he whispered, abruptly collapsing and flopping over onto me, his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted. This time, he just didn't look peaceful. I began to panic as I watched Jim approaching us with Molly. I felt like I couldn't breathe, but at the same time, I felt like I was going to be sick. I could barely see. White and tan dots covered my vision. I knew I was losing consciousness rapidly, and I could feel myself slipping away as I heard Jim's voice talking to the staff.

"Oh, don't worry, we're good friends. I'll take them home."

I went limp.


	25. № 25

"Wakey, wakey," Jim's voice crawled itself into the centre of my brain, making my eyes open and my senses slowly come back to normal.

We were in a dark, wooden room. Molly wasn't there. He must have dropped her off on the way here.

I tried to rub my eyes, my face feeling a bit numb, when I noticed I couldn't move my arms. Not very much, anyway; they were tied to Sherlock's with a plastic cable. Our wrists tightly knotted together, our shoulder blades and heads leant against each others' as we slowly regained our strength.

"You two were sleeping for a long time," Jim said. "I was surprised. I had told the workers to drug your drinks, but I was never expecting you both to take two. You were out for twice as long."

My head hurt. Everything felt weird. I didn't even remember dreaming. Just like last time, it was like no time had passed at all. That was how it had been last time, too. That would take some getting used to.

My body felt tingly as I sat more upright, Sherlock just waking up behind me. I hadn't begun to panic yet. I had decided that now would be a good time to stay levelheaded. Too much stress and I was likely to pass out again, and not necessarily from the drugs.

Sherlock groaned as he limply tried to sit upright. "We should really stop..." His words were slurred as he forced out each word. "...providing event workers with substances." He exhaled after finishing his sentence, as if it physically pained him to speak.

"No, really?" I asked sarcastically, finally feeling strong enough to sit up without his support. And then, my brain starting to work correctly again, I asked, "Where are we? Why are we here?"

Jim walked over to us in the slow way that he usually used, his feet swinging and landing directly in front of the other, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "We're in a barn," he replied flatly. "Don't worry; I've already called Mycroft. He's on his way to free you."

"Why are we here?" I repeated.

"Because I just have something to remind you two of," he said. He sat down a yard or so away from us, crossing his legs and leaning his elbows on his knees. His voice echoed so loudly through the room that I felt my headache begin to worsen as it rang in my ears.

"Oh, do get on with it," Sherlock growled. "The only thing the silence is doing is adding dramatic effect."

Jim's eyebrows furrowed. "But I love dramatic effect!" He then stood up again, walking over to Sherlock and looking down at him. "You're a feisty one, aren't you?" he added. "You're trying to make it look like you've recovered from your little fainting spell when you really haven't. But John is completely fine. Likely because he's not dealing with-" He kicked a small pebble away from his shoe, watching it bounce all the way to the other side of the room with small clicks. "-malnutrition."

Sherlock sighed. "Get to the point of your speech."

"Oh yes. Right." Jim said with an eerie smile. "My point initially was... John, you know how the armed forces work, don't you?"

"Yes," I said.

"So you're aware that, since you'll be joining the armed forces voluntarily, you will be required to serve for four years?"

I nodded. "Of course." I didn't want to ask how he knew I'd be joining the military. I didn't want to know.

"And you know you should join as soon as possible so as not to interrupt marriage or parenthood, and to be fit and healthy for the job?" Jim's face was close to mine now, his eyes looking like rusted metal.

"That's my viewpoint, yes," I replied, my voice shaking a bit as I awaited his next move.

Jim smiled, making a face that would be considered adorable if he weren't a psychopath. "You know," he said, "Sherlock literally can't join the military, isn't that right?"

"Mycroft wants to protect me," Sherlock grumbled in response. "Now hurry up; we're wasting time."

"So," Jim explained, getting to the point. "You're likely to leave straightaway after you finish your studies, and your friend... oh, he'll be lonely. And you won't see each other for half a decade. Unless you die, in which case, you won't be seeing each other again at all."

Oh, he was evil. He was lucky my hands weren't free.

"I'm just here to let you know that your time is limited," he said in a high-pitched voice, dragging out the last word and tipping his head to the side. "Tick, tock, tick... Can you hear it?"

"No," Sherlock said, "But I do hear my brother and some officers at the door trying to break it down, so I think you may want to leave."

"You want him to get away?" I asked. "Why-"

"If he's to be caught red-handed," Sherlock said, "I don't want it to be for this."

Jim reluctantly shrugged, sighing, and trudged off slowly. "Well," he chirped, "I have a feeling that, if you really... take to heart... what I've told you, we'll meet again in the future. And not the near future, no," He giggled a breathy laugh as he walked out the side door, which hadn't been checked by our search-and-rescue team yet. "I'd say... Ten years? I think that's a good estimate."

"When you're in your thirties, you won't have much time left," Sherlock called to him. "I'll be after you, then."

Jim nodded. "I know."

The door swung shut behind him as he left, blowing a gush of wind at our faces just as the front doors opened and a whole group of police officers rushed in, Mycroft slinking along behind them, not appearing to be in any sort of rush. An umbrella dangled at his side, swinging softly with each step.

A man a few years older than we were ran over, kneeling next to us and trying to free us from the cables.

"Oh, hello, Lestrade," Sherlock said. "How was your holiday? Looks like... Cuba?"

"Oh, piss off," Lestrade scoffed, turning to another officer and barking, "We'll need something to cut through this!"

"There's a wire cutter in my front pocket," Sherlock suggested. "Moriarty put it there when we were out."

I scoffed. "How would you know?" I asked as Lestrade pulled exactly that out of Sherlock's coat and began trying to cut through the plastic and metal that had been bound around our wrists.

"You really aren't very efficient at this," Sherlock remarked, and Lestrade sort of hissed through his teeth.

"It's not my division," he growled, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Who's Moriarty?" Mycroft asked, slinking toward us in his oily fashion. Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes and not answering. So I answered for him.

"He's just this guy that we're trying to take down," I said.

"No big deal," Sherlock added quickly. "No problem at all. Nothing you should even bother worrying about."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. Lestrade finished cutting through the material with a loud snap, and I felt my hands being freed from their cage, shaking them out by the wrists to get the feeling back in them. Sherlock immediately stood up, walking over and offering me a hand, which I took as he pulled me up, his hand sweaty from being clenched up for so long, but still soft. I thanked him as I got up on my feet, feeling relief - and extreme discomfort (my legs had fallen asleep) - as blood flowed to my toes again.

Lestrade came over to me and shook my hand. "Greg," he said. "You must be John."

"Why even bother asking his name?" Sherlock asked. "You meet so many people, you're likely to forget it in the next few weeks."

"Don't blame me when you can't go for five minutes without forgetting my first name and calling me Gordon even though you've known me for a year."

"That's why I call you Lestrade." Sherlock shot back. Lestrade sighed and turned to Mycroft, introducing himself and talking in whispers while glancing over at Sherlock, who, seeming to know what they were talking about, flipped them off every once in a while.

Sherlock turned to me, leaning in my direction and whispering, "We should get out of here before Donovan gets us by the throat."

"We can't leave!" I asked. "We are what they're investigating! If we leave-"

"We have to leave. Now," Sherlock urged, grabbing my arm and pulling me to the side door as a pretty woman about our age started moving toward us. She had brown skin and dark, curly hair that laid in tight ringlets, and she did not look happy. Giving in and letting Sherlock lead the way, we ran outside and ran until we found an empty taxi that was willing to give us a ride home.


	26. № 26

I was awoken to the sound of a loud thump, and I opened my eyes to see Sherlock lying on the floor. My heart jumped in my throat, and I sprung out of bed and knelt down next to him. It must have been around midnight, judging by the colour of the sky.

"Sherlock?" I asked, startled, hoping with all my might that he hadn't fainted or was experiencing cardiac arrest or something. But he wasn't, because he then explained with very wise words that only geniuses use:

"I must have rolled off the bed."

He rolled over so he was on his back, looking up at me. "Good morning."

"It's not morning," I said. "It's-" I checked the clock on the wall. "One in the morning."

"Perfect timing, too," Sherlock said. He stood up quickly, holding out his hand and hoisting me up to my feet, not letting go of my hand for a few seconds longer than normal. "It's time to go."

"What?" I asked. "Go? Go where? Sherlock, the time-"

"I know what the time is, moron," he said. "You've just told me."

I pursed my lips. "Where are we going?"

"Crime-solving, obviously," he said, pulling his pyjama shirt over his head before I could look away, and I turned the other direction, feeling my cheeks turn bright red because I had just seen his bare chest and torso. And they were nice.

Sherlock, still not wearing a shirt, pulled open the clothing drawer and took out a sweatshirt that I would never imagine him wearing, throwing it on and looking really normal for a change.

"You'll want to dress warm," he said. "We'll mostly be running, but it is winter, after all."

I nodded, and he slipped into some tracksuit bottoms as I rummaged through my drawer, taking my clothing to the bathroom to put on.

Looking myself in the mirror, I narrowed my eyes. Why did I agree to this? This was so stupid. And, it being 1:30 A.M., it was likely I wasn't thinking straight, either. There were dark circles under my eyes and my hair was a mess, but I left those alone and put on a zip-up sweatshirt, slipping the hood over my head and coming back out into the kitchen.

"So," I said. "Why now?"

He smirked. "Because all the people we need to find are awake right now."

I furrowed my brow. "How do you know?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, being extra arrogant when sleep-deprived. "John, the only people that are even awake at this hour are either experiencing or developing trauma, having sex or trying not to be caught committing crime. Obviously now is a good time."

I was taken aback by his bluntness, but, then again, he was Sherlock. It would be wrong to expect much else. I would have asked which category we belonged in if I weren't feeling so tired.

"And why will we be running?" I asked. "Running hurts." And it did. I always tasted blood in the back of my throat when I ran. Sometimes I felt like throwing up. Sometimes it made my ribs hurt. But it was never comfortable.

"Because we don't want to be seen," Sherlock sighed. "Honestly, John."

Too tired to put up much of a fuss but awake enough to run, I gave in, dropping my argument and grabbing a light coat from over by the door. Sherlock didn't put on his coat at all, slipping his feet into some casual trainers that I'd never seen him wear before and carefully opening the door, slowly turning the handle so it wouldn't wake anyone.

"You'll get cold," I said. "At least take a hat."

"Hats are overrated," he replied. "They flatten out my hair."

I scoffed. "Better than hypothermia."

"Is it really, though?" he asked dramatically, tipping his head to one side and blowing his small hair swoop out of his face.

"You want to find out?" I asked. Seeing he wasn't swayed in his decision in the least, I added, "Maybe all those girls will stop asking you out if your hair gets flat."

Sherlock then snatched the hat out of my hand, pulling it on over his head and bringing me into the lift, which we didn't have to wait for since it had stopped at our floor and wasn't being used. We stepped in, the doors closing as the lift slowly began going downward. Sherlock looked at my hair and grinned.

"Your hair is sticking out." he said.

I nodded. "Yes."

He made his mouth into a tiny v. "I like it," he informed me, and he reached out his bare hand and ruffled it up a bit, his mouth still doing the cute little smile. "It's like a bunch of little sun flares." He giggled as the lift dinged and the doors opened, permitting us to step out into the lobby.

"Sun flares? I thought you didn't know anything about the universe," I said, and he shrugged.

"That's an exaggeration," he replied. "I know about them because I've always been fascinated by auroras. They're so pretty."

"Pretty?" I said. Since when did he use the word pretty? I smirked a bit. It was cute that he was willing to give up so much precious space in his mind to store information about something he thought was pretty.

"Yes," he said. "I know many things that more psychopathic geniuses would find unimportant, such as the fact that you have exactly nine different jumpers, but your favourite one is the off-white one. And the fact that you like looking at the stars when you're falling asleep. You can also write with both of your hands, but you prefer your left, which is absolutely fascinating. Oh, and that you think the best new song on the radio is Candle in the Wind by Elton John. I know that because whenever you get to cleaning, you start humming the tune."

I laughed in a sort of awed state. "You know that much about me?"

He didn't exactly meet my eyes, but he didn't exactly avoid them. "Perhaps it's because you're fun to watch." I was likely imagining it, but I thought I saw him blush slightly in the dim light as we walked outside into the cold and the snow.

It. 

Was. 

Freezing.

I immediately began jumping from one foot to the other, watching as Sherlock quietly let the door close and latch shut. No wonder he had wanted to run; it would keep us warm. But, then again, he could have chosen to wear coats.

I personally think he just wanted to look cool.

"Don't worry, John," Sherlock said. "Cold shock is good for you. It builds up healthy fats in your body and decreases inflammation."

"It doesn't feel good, though," I said. "I'd rather be sleeping right now."

"No, you wouldn't." he said.

"No, I wouldn't." I suddenly agreed, realising that he was right, after all. He smirked, doing a laugh that was more like a strong exhalation through the nose than anything else.

"I know." he said, beginning to walk along the street, which had been covered in salt to melt the ice. I followed him as he slowly picked up the pace, walking quickly across the street and to a nearby building. My legs being far shorter than his, I found myself doing a little run-skip-walk-skip-run technique, which I found to be effective enough since I was somehow able to manage keeping up with him.

We stopped at the corner of another dormitory building, and Sherlock leant down and whispered in my ear.

"Don't tell Lestrade, but we're only here because this building has free coffee in the lobby. And I'm cold."

I chuckled. "We've been outside for five minutes. Good thing you're wearing a hat."

His breath had been warm on my neck, giving me the feeling of heat that we both knew we needed at the moment.

He opened the door for me, giving me a sideways, half-amused glance as we walked inside. A small coffee machine sat on a table by the wall, accompanied by cream, sugar and cups with lids. I silently thanked whoever put it there. I was also glad that Sherlock knew it was here. And I also wanted to have a word with the person who decided to not put coffee in our lobby and put a computer that barely worked there instead.

Pouring the coffee into a cup, I drank it right away, not bothering to add cream or waiting for it to cool off. I was too tired to care about the agonising sensation of it burning my mouth, which was exactly the reason I needed to drink it in the first place. I knew my mouth would taste like metal for the next few hours, since it always tasted like metal when I burnt my tongue. Sherlock probably knew why that phenomenon happened.

He was still preparing his coffee when I finished mine, watching the sugar fall into the cup as if he were measuring it out in his head. One cubic millimetre. Two cubic millimetres. Three.

Only really caring about waking up and possibly feeling warm again, I poured another cup of coffee, noting that it smelled so much better than it tasted, and wishing it wasn't such a disappointment. It was like that with tea, too, and a lot of foods. I drank it quickly, deciding to throw away my cup to prevent my stomach completely bursting from too much coffee, finally begin to feel awake as the caffeine began to kick in.

Sherlock, who was leaning against the table beside me, had only begun to take his first sip of his coffee. He drank slowly, seeming to enjoy the flavour of it as he gazed silently outside.

"I'll probably feel tired after drinking this," he said after a while, and I furrowed my brow at him.

"But it's caffeine," I said. "It's supposed to wake you up."

"Well, it doesn't do a very good job, then," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, taking another sip and tapping his first finger on the table behind him as he half-rested, half-leant against it. Maybe that was something that happened to geniuses. Maybe caffeine was too boring for their great minds.

I began tapping my foot rapidly on the floor, already beginning to feel jittery. Caffeine jitters were so unpleasant. They made my stomach feel too empty yet too full, always feeling a bit nauseous, always half-wondering if I was dying. I wasn't, of course, but then again...

Sherlock sat down in one of the cushioned chairs next to us, motioning for me to sit down. "I may take a few minutes," he explained, looking tired and excited at the same time. I flopped down on the chair next to him, our elbows almost touching, the pinkish-yellowish light from the lamp dully reflecting off of his straight and rounded nose as he slowly drank his coffee.

"Tell me, John," he said, swallowing another agonisingly small sip before he spoke. "What do you think happens when we die?"

That was a hard question, not to mention abrupt and a bit confusing due to the suddenness of it. I shifted in my seat, biting the inside of my cheek in thought. "I'm not sure exactly," I said. "I don't really like thinking about it. It makes me scared. But I'd like to believe there's an afterlife of some sort."

Sherlock nodded, and I added the afterthought, "What about you?"

He was taken aback, as if he hadn't expected me to ask. "Me?"

I nodded. "Yes."

He pursed his lips together. "I don't think there's anything," he said. "I think it's just... nothingness. Like when you pass out or fall asleep, and you don't know you're not awake, and you're unaware that time is passing. I think it's like that. Except you're dead, and you don't know you're dead. Which is both comforting and daunting at the same time."

I nodded. Sherlock sort of giggled into his cup, sheepishly looking down at his drink and adding, "Truth be told, I'm actually terrified of death."

"You?" I asked. "Of all people?"

He nodded. "I don't like admitting it. Sometimes I pretend I'm not afraid to die, when really..." He shrugged, sighing quietly. "I honestly can't bear to think about it for too long."

I smirked. "Hm."

"What?" he asked, turning his face to me, his lip still on the edge of the cup, the steam hitting it and condensing there. I shrugged.

"I just... It's nice when you open up emotionally with me. It's... sweet." I replied, and then, upon realising that sweet perhaps was an unwise choice of vocabulary, I said, "I mean, you know... kind. No, um... Refreshing?"

He nodded hesitantly, looking a bit confused. "Thank you," he said unsurely, and we sat there in an awkward silence until I finally found something else to talk about.

"So," I said. "The holidays are approaching."

He nodded. "Quite quickly, yes," he said. "I've no idea how November sped by so quickly."

"Will you be visiting your family?" I asked. "For Christmas, I mean."

He shook his head. "Christmas is overrated. Family is overrated. Anything involving Mycroft, actually, is overrated."

"They're fine with you not coming?"

He sighed. "My mum will be a bit put-out, but I'm sure she'll manage. They all know I don't believe in heaven, anyway."

I tapped my fingers in my armrest, finding myself unable to sit still. "Do you ever miss your family?"

He looked at the floor, lost in thought for a moment before replying, "No," and looking away. I decided not to pry, but I knew he was lying. He inhaled sharply, adding, "I'll probably send them gifts, but I won't show up."

I nodded. "I think I'll do that, too."

He turned to me, his brow furrowed. "Really?"

"Yeah," I replied. "My family is so stress-inducing. I'd rather just stay home." I looked up at him, watching him slowly drink his coffee, no longer wishing he'd speed up the pace. "And, of course, I wouldn't want you to be by yourself."

His face froze in place, his eyes blinking as if stunned. "Even though..." He hesitated, his pointer finger tracing little circles on the outside of his cup. "Even though I don't celebrate anything?"

Now it was my turn to be stunned. Did he think I'd just want to leave him all alone in a flat that was falling apart on Christmas? "Well, yes," I said. "They're the holidays, Sherlock. If you're alone on the holidays the people will pity you. They'll see you on the street and say, 'Look! That's Ebenezer Scrooge!' and they might even think you're homeless or depressed."

Sherlock chuckled for a moment before announcing, "I don't care what people think."

Before I could stop the words from leaving my lips, I said, "I do."

He looked at me for a few moments, his lips open yet tight as he thought of things to say. Or maybe he didn't want to say anything. Perhaps he liked the awkward silence.

I smirked up at him, leaning back in my chair. "They might try to give you socks."

This made him laugh. It was rich and deep and contagious, and his eyes squinted shut as his nose rested on his hand, his shoulders shaking as I began to laugh, too.

"Socks," he repeated eventually. "I actually need those."


	27. № 27

"First stop," I said, as I had decided to lead the way to our next location. "We're getting you some socks."

Sherlock smirked as we walked up to a small building that was practically falling apart. "Is this place even open?" he asked, and I nodded.

"It's one of those 24/7 places. I'm sure it has socks. It has practically everything."

"You've been here before?" he asked, and I sort of laughed as my hand gripped the handle of the door.

"I used to work here," I said.

"Oh." Sherlock was surprised, and I let him be. I opened the door for him, and he sort of smiled at me as he walked in.

"John!" a boy at the counter said. "What brings you here, mate?"

Turning my head, I recognised my old work buddy, Mike Stamford. He stood at the counter, his elbows resting on the plastic surface. I laughed in surprise, walking over and patting him on the shoulder. I felt Sherlock's eyes on me, but when I turned to look at him, he pretended to be browsing the snack aisle.

"How are you?" I asked. "How's life been treating you?"

He shrugged. "It's alright," he said. "I suspect you go to school here then?"

"Yes," I said. "This is my flatmate, Sherlock. Sherlock-" his head immediately turned to me and he began walking over, having been paying attention to our whole conversation along with knowing what would happen next. "-this is Mike."

They shook hands, Sherlock's mood immediately switching, his mannerisms morphing completely as he gave Mike an exaggerated smile. "Nice to meet you," he said in a way that sounded oddly genuine.

Mike smiled back. "It's cold, yeah? Too cold, I think."

"Aye," Sherlock said, which I was surprised to hear. It sounded weird coming out of his mouth. Foreign, almost. "We've actually come for some socks."

"Back corner, to the left," Mike said, turning to a stack of papers as we went to look. Sherlock and I walked over to where he directed, finding a whole section of really distasteful and ugly socks in the corner.

After a few moments of looking, I found one pair that wasn't so threatening and held it out to him. "These ones are supposed to look like elf shoes."

He rolled his eyes. "Lovely."

"Oh, and these," I said, showing off a random pair that I grabbed. "These ones are pink with green and purple polka dots! Look at the stunning style-"

"It looks like Gucci," Sherlock said. "That's how bad they are."

I showed him another pair. "Look: cats!"

"Woah," he said in mock surprise, the corner of his lip pulling up into a subtle smile. "Fascinating."

"Truly is," I said. "Oh, and look! These ones say Madonna on the bottom of the foot."

"Madonna?" Sherlock asked. "What an odd name. And what a weird thing to put on a sock."

I narrowed my eyes, putting the pieces together in my head before letting my jaw drop open in disbelief. "You don't know who Madonna is?"

He shook his head, pursing his lips. "Absolutely no idea."

"The singer? You've never even heard of her?"

"Is she bad?" he asked. "Because, if so, I probably deleted her from my brain."

I nodded. "Yeah, I guess her music kinda sucks." Her songs never failed to get stuck in my head, though, and I found myself singing Like A Virgin to myself every once in a while. Whether I did subtle dance moves or not was unimportant.

"That would make sense," he said. He then took the Madonna socks out of my hand and brought them up to Mike. "I want these ones."

I chuckled a bit, imagining them on Sherlock's feet. He probably chose them because, other than the pink writing on the bottom, they were all grey. I was surprised; I'd thought he'd say they were boring.

I paid for them, handing the socks to Sherlock as a sarcastic early Christmas gift, and he laughed and stuffed them in his coat as I said goodbye to Mike and we left.

"Hey!" my friend called out after us as the door shut. I opened it again and popped my head alone back inside of the room.

"Yes?" I asked as Sherlock waited outside.

Mike smiled. "Congrats on finally finding a boyfriend! I knew you could do it!"

My brain frozen, not knowing how to respond, all I could do was nod, say goodnight, and leave, desperately wishing that Mike was right. It seemed that, with every passing moment, I wanted to kiss Sherlock more than I had before. I wanted to trace his cheekbones with my thumbs. I wanted to wake up in the same bed. I wanted to hold his hands in the street just so I could say, Look at this angel I got myself. Look at him. He's all mine.

But I had to stop thinking like this. I had to grow up, to ignore the ache in my chest, ignore the fluttering of my stomach, and remember that it wasn't meant to be. Or, at least, I didn't think so.

"Are you alright, John?" Sherlock asked, looking down at me, his face attractively illuminated by the streetlights. All lighting looked good on his face. I wondered why I was so surprised every time I noticed.

"Yeah," I said, breaking out of my trance. "Where are we going next?"

He smirked playfully, his shoes leaving perfectly symmetrical prints in the thin snow. "If I told you, it'd ruin the fun, now, wouldn't it?"

I narrowed my eyes. "What if I told you it would be more logical or convenient if you told me?"

Sherlock sort of scoffed, rolling his eyes as the toe of his shoe hit the ground, his body turning to face me and his walking coming to an immediate stop. "Logic and convenience don't matter at two in the morning, John. Obviously. Dead hours like these are the ones where you can just look up at the sky and completely forget everything. If it were daytime, our behaviour would actually matter because people would be around and there would be sudden responsibilities and I'd have to help you with your anatomy studies."

"You don't always have to help me with my classes-" I began, but I trailed off as I noticed that Sherlock, as usual, was not listening at all. He was walking again, now in deeper snow than before, and I found myself stepping in his footprints to keep my trainers dry. 

"We're going to find the gun," Sherlock explained quickly, smirking as if he had made a genius joke. "Obviously."

"Oh," I said. "The gun."

I guess that was the logical thing to look for. But I had personally made the assumption that he didn't care to look for evidence because he was so damn smart that he didn't need it at all. But that wouldn't hold up in a courtroom, so I trudged along behind him without a second thought.

His feet were so much bigger than mine. And his footsteps were farther apart, too, so I had to be sure not to slip as I sort of hopped between them. I cursed my short legs as I almost slipped - three times, actually - on the slippery snow beneath the bottoms of my feet. I was beginning to grow cold, and I hoped the snow would thin out so I could run without slipping or getting too wet.

Finally, we hit a part of the street that was shielded mostly by thick trees above us. The snow was thinner here, as most of it had landed on the leaves. I was still getting used to seeing Sherlock in such casual attire, and I did a double-take every time I had forgotten that he didn't look like he normally did. He was still cute, though, a floppy wave of hair still peeking out from under his hat. I was glad he was still wearing it. I didn't want him to catch cold, knowing that he wouldn't want to take care of himself because of his seemingly unimportant it was to him.

"So, John," he said, slowing down so I could catch up. "How do you know Mike?" He pursed his lips against the cold, the tip of his nose pink and highlighted by the moon. He had such a nice nose. Mary didn't have that nose. Nobody did. Nobody but him.

I cleared my throat in attempt to gather my thoughts together. "We both used to work there together," I said. "For a year or so, actually. We became quite close, you know. He's a good friend."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "I can tell you like him."

"Oh, yes," I said. "He was so kind to me. Took me under his wing, really, when nobody else did. We've grown apart, though. I haven't talked to him since I quit." I sniffled, my nose numb and dripping slightly from the cold.

My friend was quiet for a long time, staring straight ahead as we walked down the dim street, his hands curled up in his warm pockets. "Is he the one that made you think you were gay?"

I stopped in my tracks, my mouth open in surprise. "What?" I asked. "No! Obviously not. Sherlock..." I sighed, wanting more than anything in the world to blurt it out. How do you not know? It's you, Sherlock. It's always you. For Christ's sake, it's been you all along. 

He furrowed his brow as he stared at me. "What is it?" he asked, and I gritted my teeth against the cold wind.

"It's, um," I bit my lip as I paused, not meeting his gaze. "It's not him. He's a good friend. Nothing more, nothing less. Well, possibly less. But he's not romantically, or even sexually, attractive to me. At all." I let my hands curl up into fists, my fingers cold and dry. Sherlock nodded and kept walking down the street, and I followed close behind.

"Good," he said. "Otherwise, I'd have to rethink my observations."

"What?" I asked, and he pursed his lips, kicking the snow as he stepped with the heel of his shoe.

"Nothing."

I wasn't stupid enough to think that people meant what they said when they replied with "Nothing". But I let it slide, partly because I didn't want to pry, but mostly because I was scared of what he'd noticed. The thought that he could hypothetically know who I was interested in scared me half to death.

"So," I said, changing the subject. "What do we know so far?"

Quickly speaking, words falling out of his mouth like beads from a bowl, he replied, "We know that the women who died all took the pill given to us by Mary. We know that they all had the same man in common, and they all died the same way. Moriarty and Mary are working, and possibly doing a little - to put it lightly - how's your father, together, so they're obviously connected to the case. We just need to find the man who is both capable and guilty of actually performing the crime. Mary isn't willing to give any hints, so we'll just have to find him ourselves." He sighed, his breath clouding in front of him. "Oh, and, by the way, judging by the strength of her hand and her fantastic aim, Mary-" He put her name in finger quotations as he spoke. "-is currently an undercover assassin."

I had to close my jaw after listening to his monologue. I believed it all, and it was incredible how intelligent he was. "That," I said, "is amazing."

He nodded, pursing his lips and bowing his head down as he kept his eyes on his moving feet. "Thank you, John."

"So all we have to do is find the man and then the gun?" I asked, to which he quickly replied, "Yes, obviously," and launched into another long explanation.

"I found a map and applied the daily traffic rate to each major road in London. Because of where the three women were killed, I knew that the killer needed to choose the time wisely. It needed to be a time where they were out of work, alone, and he could easily escape the crime scene without getting stuck in jams. The only logical place that fit all of the women was this exact neighbourhood. We can figure out where he lives by disregarding the college dorms, which are most of them, since he is obviously much older than we are, judging by his choice in women. The only homes in the area that aren't occupied by students are on this street."

Clever. That was it. Nothing else (except maybe a bit of charm) but cleverness slapped me across the face as he guided me down the road, looking at each house for a few moments before moving on.

There was a certain emptiness in the conversation, as if he were waiting for me to say something. I looked at him expectantly, giving him the clue to keep talking.

"And it can't be a professor," he added, "because no professors were absent from university during the time of the murders. So, I know exactly where he lives, and it's right there." He pointed with his finger to a small residence in front of us, and began walking up to it.

"Sherlock," I said, "What are you doing? We can't go in."

He scoffed, pulling my shirtsleeve and dragging me with him. "How else are we supposed to catch him, genius? Teleportation? Telepathy? Magic?"

Gritting my teeth together in anxiety, I shoved his grip off of my shirt. "Yes," I grumbled through my nervousness, unsurely following close behind Sherlock as he led the two of us to the front door.

Sherlock rang the doorbell and then turned to me, smiling dryly down at my suspicious face. "Now, John," he said, being a bit too nice to be trustworthy. "Do you know how a drunk person acts?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. "...Have you met my dad?"

He nodded and firmly slapped me on the back. "Right. Good," he said. "Pretend you're plastered."

I barely had time to object before the door opened to reveal a middle-aged man in a dressing gown and premature balding standing in the doorway. "What do you want?" he barked at us in a thick Cockney accent. Sherlock smiled at him, wrapping his arm under both of mine and making it appear as if I were leaning on him.

"Hello," he said. "I'm sorry to wake you. You see, my friend is completely hammered, and it's really cold. We were just wondering if we could phone my brother to come pick us up."

"As long as he doesn't get sick on my new carpet," the man grumbled, groggily letting us in, and I stumbled through the doorway and pretended to almost fall over. The state of drunkenness that I had been ordered to acquire was an easy one because I didn't have to talk much, and I wasn't hoping to.

"Sorry again," Sherlock said. The man just nodded and pointed to the phone on the wall. My friend took it in his hand, dialling the number on the keypad and looking the man up and down, nodding assuringly at me after he had finished deducing him. I sat, slumped over, in a chair in the kitchen, and I spotted a small black pill on the floor by my feet. I signalled to Sherlock with my eyes, and, looking at it as well, he received my message.

"Hey, Myc," he said. "I was simply calling because Timothy is completely wasted and we need you to come pick us up. It's freezing outside." He pursed his lips, glancing over at the man in front of us and then back at the floor. "Well, bring Gerald if you want. Not Phil, though, or Sally. Just Giles."

He had the man give Mycroft the address and hung up promptly, coming over and sitting down next to me. "Don't worry, Tim," he said. "Just hang tight. Myc will be here in a few minutes."

I nodded, my eyes closed, and I flopped sideways so I was leaning my head on his shoulder. I was glad that Mycroft was clever enough to read between the lines and know the real situation at hand without being explicitly told. He's one of those people who, though he was annoying, was needed at times such as these.

Sherlock, in return, rested his head on top of mine as my drunk personality and I slowly drifted off to sleep, pleasantly drowned by the smell of ginger nuts and coffee.

The two of us later trudged back outside, me leaning against Sherlock in order to be convincing to the man that I'd had too much to drink. His arm wrapped around my back as he held my weight, and I made sure to mumble a few things that I vaguely remembered Sherlock saying when he'd gotten a concussion. He sort of smirked when I did so. I liked how he looked when he smirked.

We heard the door swinging open and turned to see the man coming outside with us. "I'll wait with you," he said. "Don't want you vandalising my house or my brand new car."

"Oh, we wouldn't," Sherlock said a bit too nicely, and we inched forward a bit more when I felt something hit my right toe.

"What I've learnt, boy," said the man, his voice mean and scruffy, "is that you can never trust kids like the two of you."

Looking down, I tried to nonchalantly scrape the snow off of the object I'd hit. Sherlock noticed this and gave me an excited glance before trying to convince the man to go back inside.

"It's cold," he said. "You really shouldn't be staying out here so long. You can watch us through the window inside, you know."

The man merely grunted and proceeded to lean against the wall.

My shoe getting the snow off of the surface of the object below, I nudged Sherlock gently when I realised that, beneath us in the deep, white snow, was exactly the evidence we needed.

The gun.

Sherlock turned to me quickly and began whispering at a rapid speed. His lips were stiffened in the cold, and my mind sinfully wandered to ways of which I could warm them up again. His arm tightened around my shoulders as he tried to conceal our conversing, his body still supporting my weight wholeheartedly.

"Don't touch it," he whispered. "You'll put your fingerprints on the evidence and then risk smudging his away. We need to guard it, though, so he can't run off with it. And we want him back inside the house before the police come so he can't run away without spending minutes grabbing winter gear."

I nodded. "What if he-"

"Hey," said the man abruptly. "What's that down by your feet?" His voice was low and intimidating, and I tried my best not to look terrified and to keep my drunken composure. Sherlock took a breath and shrugged.

"A rock," he replied flatly. "Or maybe it's a block of ice. Why are you so curious?"

I felt my own fingers tightening around his arm, and he comfortingly did the same after a moment of awkward and reluctant hesitation. His breathing was nervous now, silent but quick and shallow. The man wasn't convinced, obviously. He knew what it was. He knew we had found his gun.

"Step away from it," he growled.

"Step away from what?" Sherlock teased, nudging me and nodding slightly toward the gun. I kept my eyes on it, planning my move to grab it and tensing up so I could when the time came.

"The item beneath your feet," he replied. "Take five large steps back."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, teasing the man with his voice and me with the placement of his hand. "It's not a gun or anything." He smirked and narrowed his eyes, and the man took a slow step over to us.

"I'm gonna take him down," Sherlock whispered, and I quickly gripped his arm with my hand again.

"No," I breathed, "you're not. You need to take care of your head still, remember?"

"I'm gonna take him down," he repeated again, and I elbowed him roughly in the ribs.

"Take the gun, Sherlock."

He turned to me and furrowed his brow. "What? That's your job."

The man then started to run toward us. I gasped and threw Sherlock to the ground behind me. "I said take the gun!" I ordered him, and that was when the man made contact with my body.

I had braced myself. My feet stayed planted as he rammed into my chest, and I gave him a desperate blow to the left cheek with my knuckles as he tried to get past me, his fingers grasping at the tail of Sherlock's coat. He covered his cheek with his hand then, giving me enough time to knock him to the ground and pin his hands to the concrete step.

My breathing wavered as I stared down at him, watching the gears turning in his head as he realised that I wasn't actually drunk and that we knew. I heard Sherlock inhale sharply behind me then, and I watched his coat swishing around in my peripheral vision.

"John."

I gathered my breath to calm my surging heartbeat, swallowing and taking a shallow, controlled breath in as to keep from hyperventilating. "What is it?"

His voice was excited and terrified and uneasy and had an air of gleeful accomplishment all at the same time as he replied, "I was right."

"Right?" I asked. "About what?"

The man beneath me tried to shrug me off, but I put my left knee on his shoulder to help keep him down. I turned a bit and watched Sherlock's face. He looked shocked. Shocked that he was right? That didn't make any sense. Not to me.

He hadn't picked up the gun, most likely so we wouldn't ruin the evidence. But he stared down at it now as he explained, "This is the same gun that was used to shoot you in the shoulder." He turned to the man and pointed at him with an outstretched, gloved finger. "You shot John Watson in the shoulder."

"Bastard!" the man hollered back at him. "You tricked me into letting you into my home! It was a whole setup and I was just doing the kind thing!"

"Doing the kind thing, was it? Was that your excuse when your wife took the kids and divorced you due to your complete shit personality? Was that what you said about hitting the dog on the head with the shovel? About beating the children when they forgot to do the dishes?" His eyes darted over the man's body again and again as he spoke, until he lowered his hand and added, "Is that your excuse for shooting my... um..." He waved a hand in the air at me as he tried to figure it out.

"What?" I asked. "Oh. Um... Friend."

"...Flatmate."

"Friend."

He looked blank for a few moments then, but eventually moved on with his little speech. "You have those memory pills in your home. I know because John spotted one on the floor. Once the authorities arrive, is that what you'll tell them? 'Oh, I was just doing the kind thing to do?' Piss off."

The man growled at him, wriggling under my weight. "How'd you know about my wife? And the kids? And the dog?"

"Those three traits are always associated with cheating, lying, filthy scumbags. I just used an educated guess based solely on probability and also partially on personal protectiveness. I'm sure you've heard of that." Sherlock laughed then. It was a terrifying laugh. "Honestly, though, you're a pretty open book. It's obvious just by the way you're worried about your cars instead of a plastered college kid because you have no emotional connections with anyone so you turn your insecurities into materialism. I could go on for minutes on how obvious you are. But you'd probably forget it right away, being the goldfish you are..."

The man stared lividly at him. "You... cock."

"Mm." Sherlock agreed coolly. "I get that a lot."

He nodded under me. "No shit."

And I nodded. "No shit."

Sherlock smirked and furrowed his brow playfully. "Shut up, John."

I laughed because that was all I could do. But there was such a big part of me that wanted so badly to stand up and say, Then make me.


	28. № 28

The man was in handcuffs now, and he was cursing at us, spitting through his teeth as he was thrown into the police car. Sherlock stood proudly next to me, his hands folded almost arrogantly behind his back as we were congratulated by many officers at a time. I didn't pay much attention. I was completely knackered, it being almost four in the morning, and I stared off into space as my mind wandered off to other things.

Like Harry. Even though she pissed me off from time to time, I still missed her. She was always a nurturing sister to me, and she was there to help me through having a rubbish dad and an uncomfortable mum for as long as I could remember. She taught me everything that parents are supposed to teach you, even including the notorious sexual development and reproduction talk. But she pretended it wasn't absolutely appalling, which did help. She would sit next to me on the bed upstairs and show me diagrams and talk about things as if the only thing I had to care about in life was how babies were made.

"Harry?" I asked one night, my legs crossed as I sat on my pillow and she came into my room to say goodnight.

Her curly mop of hair had been draped over her eyes like a long-haired dog as she turned off the light. "Yes?" she asked, walking over and sitting next to me.

"Have you ever kissed anyone?" I had seen kissing in movies and Disney animations, but never in real life. Not even with my parents. Although I'm sure all Dad tasted like was smoke and alcohol, so it would make sense if Mum didn't want to kiss him anymore.

Harry laughed, a bit of rare light infecting her eyes. "Don't tell Mummy and Daddy," she said, "but yes, I have." She curled an arm around me and pulled me close, resting her chin on my head. I leant into her, staring at my constellation poster across the room, looking at all the stars in the logo, wondering if I'd ever get to see them up close. I'd wanted to be an astronaut until I gained enough sense to be scared of outer space completely. Then I decided I wanted to be a doctor. Generic, I know.

"What does it feel like?" I asked almost absently, my eyes tracing and retracing all the tiny stars, all the seemingly microscopic bits of light in the printed photo in front of me. I wondered if I'd ever kiss someone. I wondered who it would be.

Harry smiled and bit her lip, as if remembering. She stared down at the floor, kicking her leg up, and then down, and then back up again. "It feels like..." She paused, tilting her head back and thinking, staring at the ceiling of my bedroom and letting her hair fall unnaturally out of her face. "It feels like flying in the sky, being all giddy and excited and eventually realising that you aren't just another insignificant dot on the Earth, but rather the Earth herself is revolving around you. Everything, for the few moments in which it happens, goes completely right, just for you." Her fingers dug into my bedsheets, her lips curving upward into a slight smile.

I nodded. "I always heard that it feels like fireworks."

Harry chuckled softly and ruffled my hair with her hand. "Nah," she said. "It's a lot better than that."

I kind of pouted, my lips half-puckered as I contemplated the common what-ifs that children always have. "But, Harry," I asked, my young voice coming out as a soft, high-pitched squeak. "What if I never find any girls to kiss?"

Harry smiled down at me. "Easy," she said. "Just find a boy."

☯

"John," Sherlock said, smiling adorably down at me as I snapped out of my trance. "Time to go home."

I nodded tiredly, following him through the streets. My body felt heavy, and it took too much willpower to keep holding it upright. Maybe if I just... sank into the snow...

"John," Sherlock said. "John, wake up."

I opened my heavy, dense eyelids to find myself staring straight into my flatmate's bright, amused eyes. "You fell asleep," he explained. "We need to get back home before we do that."

My body feeling like it were made of lead, I weakly linked my arms around Sherlock's neck as he picked me up like a child, cradling my body in his arms and holding my head in the crook of his neck with his left hand, carrying the both of us home. He smelt of coffee, and perhaps the forest. And I loved his smell.

I drifted off to sleep again, awakened suddenly as I was laid down on my own bed. Sherlock was tugging the blanket over my limp body, softly adjusting my head on the pillow and tucking the blanket in just right so it would be snug yet still comfortable around me. My eyes cracked open just a bit, and I chuckled breathily as I saw his face concentrating on tucking me into bed just right.

"Sherlock?" I asked deliriously, my syllables slurred, my brain barely able to function due to my lack of sleep.

Sherlock looked over at me, kneeling on the floor next to my bed. "Yes, John?" he replied, his eyes flickering between the both of mine. I didn't want to fall asleep because I wanted to look at them, and I urged myself to stay awake until he left my side.

"Remind me tomorrow," I mumbled, "but there's something I really need to tell you."

He smiled a bit, though it was more of a twitch of his mouth, like he was trying to hold back. "Alright," he said. "Goodnight, John."

He stood up, still in his sweatshirt, his hair poofy and messed up from his hat, and flopped down into his bed from where he was standing. Slowly, I found myself falling into sleep, and I let myself succumb to its deep tranquility yet again.


	29. № 29

I awoke late that morning, surprised to see that, even though it was twelve in the afternoon, Sherlock was still asleep in the bed next to me. I got up, softly tip-toeing across the room and into the kitchen, plugging the coffee machine into the wall and filling it with coffee grounds and then turning it on and waiting for it to drip into the thick glass pitcher. Not knowing what to do since nobody else was awake and it was my first time being up by myself, I awkwardly paced over to the window and sat down on the sofa, my torso pressed against the backrest, my arms crossed and supporting my chin as I looked down at the snow.

This, I learnt quickly, was good for thinking. Thinking was an easy way to pass the time, and looking at the snow made it easy to think. I watched all the people below, looking so tiny and insignificant. What were they all doing? What important things did they have in store today? Maybe one of them would end up saving a life. Maybe one of them would find a lost kitten in the street. Perhaps one of them would get engaged. But they were all doing something, and I liked to imagine what that might be.

I pretended I knew what they were doing. That man in the taxi, I told myself, was rushing to an important meeting with his business, and the lady underneath my window was–

Oh, God, what was she doing?

She was kissing another girl. And not just sweetly, either. It was hardcore, pressing-up-against-the-wall-and-grasping-at-clothes kissing. And I froze even more as I realised that I had met one of the girls before.

"You moving in early, too?" she had asked us before. After grasping for it in my head for a long time, I finally reached he name.

Irene.

And the other girl, I technically hadn't met before. Not really. I never necessarily met her, because I'd known her my whole life.

It was Harry. Harry and Irene.

My stomach dropped along with my jaw as I gaped down at them, not doubting for a second that either of them were someone else. I wonder if Harry knew I lived here; if she knew we could see her. Perhaps she didn't care.

Half of me was disgusted. Because nobody should show their romantic affection that strongly in public. And that was my sister.

But the other half of me was proud. Because, even though they were both the same sex, even though it wasn't classy or polite, they weren't afraid of people knowing they were together. And, though homosexuality was rarer than not, they had found each other, unafraid to put themselves out there and confess.

I was also proud because it was my sister.

Hearing the bedroom door opening, I turned to see Sherlock emerging from the room. He looked tired, and he slunk slowly to the refrigerator.

"Good morning, John," he said, taking a glass and filling it with water. He drank water in the morning because the cold woke him up. Coffee did not. I still couldn't wrap my head around why it didn't.

Not responding to his greeting, I pointed out the window. "Harry and Irene..." I began, but I didn't have to finish the sentence because Sherlock was already next to me, watching them.

He nodded, not seemingly surprised, sipping his drink and watching them intently. "That's why I was so confused when she asked me to dinner."

I whipped round to face him. "She what?" I asked, and Sherlock shrugged.

"I declined, of course. I told her I wasn't hungry."

I pointed down at my sister again. "And you knew they were together all along?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "It was obvious. I thought you knew."

Before I could ask any more questions, Sherlock left my side, made me a cup of coffee and brought it over to me.

"Thank you," I said, and he smiled at me in silent reply. It was a genuine smile, the half-laugh kind that he did. He didn't do that to anyone else. But, then again, he wasn't too friendly with any other people. They weren't too friendly with him, either.

"So," he said, not at all alarmed by the scene happening below us. Irene was pulling Harry inside now, and I tried not to think about what was happening next. "We solved our first case together."

I turned my attention toward him. "Yes," I said. "Yes, we did." He had a bit of stubble on his jawline and above his upper lip. It was cute.

"We should celebrate," he said. "Actually, that wasn't a suggestion. We will celebrate, and that's an order."

"Oh, really?" I asked, and he nodded his head, watching contently as I drank the coffee he had given me. His eyes trailed to my lips, but then averted to the window again. Most likely because he was watching the cup and his eyes just... slipped. Surely nothing more. Absolutely nothing–

"Let's go," Sherlock said.

"What? Now?" I asked, almost startled by the sudden spontaneity. "I'm still in my pyjamas!"

"That's right," Sherlock said. "And I need to shave." He made his way to the bathroom as I did the bedroom, and I turned to look at him.

"I mean..." I shrugged, trying my best to be nonchalant. "You don't have to..."

"It passes the time," Sherlock reasoned, "and I'd rather not have a handlebar moustache anytime soon."

I nodded, a bit disappointed, and walked into the bedroom to change. I threw on some jeans and a random jumper from my drawer, checking the mirror above it to make sure I was presentable. And I was. So I went to the kitchen and finished my coffee as I waited.

Harry and Irene.

Weird.

Yet understandable. They were both pretty, and not completely awful people. It made sense that they'd gravitate towards each other like that.

If only that were how it was with me.

But, then again, how did I know for certain that I hadn't a chance at love? Truth be told, I didn't know for sure, so I didn't need to be so pessimistic. Maybe, just maybe, I had a chance with him.

I tapped my first finger on the counter, biting the inside of my cheek. No, I told myself. Just look at yourself, John. You're nothing special. And he's most likely straight. Most people these days are straight... right?

Sherlock walked out of the bathroom, smiling down at me as he slipped his shoes on and took his coat. I was already prepared to leave, and I waited by the door until he was ready as well. I held it open for him, following him and his flowing coat tail out of the room and into the hall.

"Where are we going?" I asked, and he said nothing, smirking playfully at me.

"Since you're a sentimental person, I thought you would have guessed."

I shrugged. "I'm not good at guessing."

"So I've gathered," my flatmate replied as we made our way downstairs and outside to hail a taxi.

☯

Angelo's.

At least, it was called that now. When we had first come here, it was named Rosamund's. I had always thought that was an odd name for an Italian restaurant. But the name was gone. Oh, and so was Mary. She had quit. And Angelo had taken over.

"You fainted here," Sherlock reminded me, and I chuckled.

Forget it, I remembered him telling me. Just forget it.

I definitely had forgotten about trying to be completely straight. I was barely trying anymore. The only thing that took me from completely letting loose was the fear of rejection.

Forget it. Forget it. Forget it.

We were seated at another window seat. The restaurant was fairly quiet, likely because we had missed the lunch hour and arrived before dinner typically began. Sherlock sat in front of the window and I sat facing him, not paying much attention to the menu as he rambled on about some quantum-physics thing that I didn't understand. But I listened anyway, adding an occasional "yeah" or "wow" to let him know I was still somewhat invested in the conversation.

At some point, we ordered food, but I couldn't quite remember doing it, or even what I had ordered at all. Because I kept thinking about Harry, and how she took a chance when she had it, and how she had found love in a person that society didn't quite accept yet, and she wasn't afraid.

Or maybe she was. But she didn't show it. And I admired that.

I wanted to be like Harry.

"If I may," Sherlock interrupted my thoughts, playfully holding his glass of water up in his right hand. "A toast."

I smirked. "Go ahead."

Lifting his glass up in the air, he smiled almost deviously as he began to speak. "John," he said, "You are a very interesting person."

"...Thank you?" I replied, a bit unsure of whether it was a compliment or not.

"You own more knitted jumpers than my grandmother..." he continued, and I scoffed.

"Oh, you-"

"I've always been fascinated by the fact that you're ambidextrous. That's very interesting. I'm wearing my Madonna socks, by the way. Oh, and you also stopped my smoking habit, did you know? And I've gained three pounds." He raised his eyebrows in a way suggesting that he deserved a trophy.

I picked my water glass up then, raising it up into the air as far as I could, though it was still lower than his. "I now know that the proper way to get rid of unwanted dates is to drug their hot chocolate," I fired back as he began to smile in amusement. "You've never used a hoover, have you? Well, I've learnt that you probably never will either, as you're prone to destruction."

He giggled a little bit, his eyes crinkling up in the corners. "Very true."

My mind flashed back to the day we met, him lying flat on his back and ruining his lungs, his words flat and cold and grey. And he had saved me when I was shot.

He had saved me when I was shot.

"And I never thanked you," I said suddenly, forgetting about the teasing as I realised the reality of what I was about to say. "I never thanked you for helping me when I was shot in the shoulder."

He smiled a bit less, though his eyes seemed to melt a bit more. I swallowed, realising more and more things that I'd never mentioned before.

"And people really don't appreciate you enough," I continued. "They're all mean and cold and sarcastic and they call you names. But you deserve better. You're clever, you do their jobs for them, and, though it's clearly hidden by a mask, you are the most emotional, most human human being that I've ever had the good fortune of knowing."

Sherlock's smile had turned neutral now, though his eyes said it all. He sniffled and blinked a few times, clearing his throat and pretending that he wasn't just about to break down in a crying fit.

"Thank you." he said, and I raised my glass of water to his.

"To good times," I said, and our glasses clicked together.

Sherlock nodded, looking down at the table. "To good times."

☯

The taxi home was rough and bumpy, the traffic miserable from all the snow, and I sat silently next to Sherlock in the back.

Be like Harry, I told myself for the billionth time that day. Forget it. Just forget it. Be like Harry.

Turning to Sherlock, I made myself blurt it out. Well, I made myself step into something I couldn't get out of.

"Sherlock," I announced suddenly before I had time to second-guess myself. "I have something to tell you when we get back. Something really important. And if I'm lying, you need to make me tell the truth."

Sherlock looked taken aback, but he nodded. "Fine," he said. "I'll make you tell the truth."

We both looked out the window, and I began to feel nervous. Because it was time to grow up, for Christ's sake.

And, to hell with it, I was going to be like Harry.


	30. № 3Ø

The door slammed as we got back to our flat, hanging out coats on the wall and leaving our shoes by the door. Adrenaline pumping through my veins, I felt... jittery. I didn't even feel scared. I just felt stuck, like if I opened my mouth nothing would come out of it. But I knew it was time to put mind over matter and just confess. It was the right thing to do.

I paced around the room a few times, unable to keep still. Sherlock sat down on the sofa and watched me blankly, his arm slung over the back cushion and his left leg crossed over his right. He was wearing his purple shirt. That was my favourite one.

Flustered and energetic, I even stepped on the coffee table to try to get a grip on my nerves. Sherlock just waited patiently, his eyes following my every move as the both of us awaited what was to come.

For once, he made no snappy remarks, no sarcastic jokes. He just... watched. His eyes were kind, interested, patient. He knew what it was like to be so stressed you walk all over furniture that isn't meant to be stepped on. He knew what I was feeling. Maybe. I put my hands on the top of my head, gripping the hair as I sighed.

"Give me motivation," I said. "I need motivation."

Sherlock nodded. "...I'm waiting." His lips were slightly tight, his finger beginning to tap the sofa repeatedly.

And that was all the motivation I had needed. That was a good thing about Sherlock; he was clever enough to always know exactly what to say. Unlike me. Because, now that I wanted to speak, I wasn't sure how to begin. Cursing myself for not planning this ahead of time, I flopped down next to him on the sofa and decided to improvise before I lost my spark.

"Sherlock," I began as he listened. "I've tried to tell you this so many times in the past, but I've been interrupted, either by people or my own brain, but please don't let me stop this time, because I need to get it off my conscience before I go completely mad."

He nodded. Forget it.

I cleared my throat, taking in a huge breath. I knew it would be better to just get to the point. "Sherlock," I said, pursing my lips and trying to calm myself down. "I'm... gay."

Holy hell.

The release of the sentence felt so nice, so freeing. I felt so light, so loose, and I nodded as if I were reacting to my own announcement.

Turning to Sherlock, I was surprised to see him smirking. "What?" I asked, and he gave a small, one-syllable laugh.

"I know," he said.

I laughed a bit. Of course he knew. Then why did I bother telling him?

"Care to elaborate?" I asked.

He shook his head. "But I do know you haven't told me everything, have you?"

I swallowed, lightly tapping my foot on the ground. I had pushed myself into this. I had done this to myself, so I may as well go through with it.

I stood up suddenly, closing my eyes for a moment as I breathed and gathered all the scattered pieces in my mind together. I turned to Sherlock, opening my eyes, and finally blurted out what I had wanted to say all along.

"Sherlock," I admitted desperately, "I'm in love with you."

Silence. Relief. Quiet.

And then came the fear. Because he didn't react straightaway. He just sort of sat there, staring up at me, a bit stunned as he loosely existed on the sofa. He was frozen in place for many moments, and his cheeks began to turn an adorable shade of pink.

I had embarrassed him. Because he was straight. Damn.

I felt my nose stinging in disappointment and looked down at the floor. "Look," I said, "I'm sorry-"

"No," he interrupted. "Don't be."

I couldn't look at him, and I kept my eyes on the grains of the old and skinny floorboards. Sherlock slowly stood up and, before I could even look up, he pulled me into a tight hug.

I was startled, but I hugged him back, feeling protected as he wrapped his arms around me and laughed into my neck.

"What's so funny?" I asked, not quite sure what he was feeling about this whole scenario, and still unsure as to what I should be feeling in response.

He giggled, keeping me in his tight embrace. "I knew all along," he said.

"What?" I asked. "How-"

"I wasn't going to tell you I knew. I didn't want to hurt you. But I knew because your pupils dilated and, most importantly-" He pulled away from me slightly and rolled up the sleeve of my jumper, taking my wrist in his soft, firm hand and pressing his thumb lightly to my veins. "-I took your pulse."

I didn't know what to say. How should I have reacted? I felt a bit awkward, but I felt safe. Sherlock was here, his hands on my skin, his scent dancing around me in waves, and that was enough. I looked up at him, and he was still blushing the slightest bit as I did so.

"John," he finally replied, making my heart almost jump out of my chest and run off with his. "I'd like to say that I... Well, I think I do, but I'm actually not sure how these things work... But I think I'm in love with you, too."

At a sudden loss for words, I gaped up at him as he took my hand in his and placed his other hand on my hip. "I've always been," he said. "Ever since you sat down next to me on that arse-freezing park bench to ask if I was okay." He giggled a bit, pulling me up against him and beginning to do a sort of slow dance with me. "You were my first friend, and you still remain my best, and I love you."

Still rocking side to side with him, I couldn't take the wait any longer, and I stood up on the tips of my toes, closing my eyes and locking our lips together.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, stopping our movement and slowly reaching to my back, pulling me as close to him as possible as my hand travelled up his arm and to the back of his neck. If Heaven was, in fact, real, I knew that this was as close as it got to the real thing.

This, I counted as my real first kiss, because Mary's didn't even come close.

It was awkward and clumsy, but it was good. It seemed to last forever, and I eventually had to stop for air, much to the disappointment of both of us. Sherlock then sat down on the sofa, pulling me on to his lap, letting me hug him again and close my eyes, resting my jaw on his shoulder.

We both started giggling then, almost hysterically, and at the same time, too. I snorted, completely accidentally, which made us laugh even more until we both finally settled down a bit. I sighed contently, loving the feeling of being hugged by him, opening my eyes and watching the snow fall outside.

"What took us so bloody long?" I asked, and Sherlock smirked.

"That's something you should be asking yourself."

I sighed. "I suppose I was scared," I said. "Terrified, really. Absolutely terrified."

"Of what?" Sherlock asked. "Did you doubt my feelings for you?"

I looked into his eyes, feeling at peace with how close I was to them. "Well, yes," I said. "You weren't very obvious."

He smirked up at me. "I legitimately took you on dates, John."

I sighed. "Maybe I'm just bad at taking hints.

He nodded. "Perhaps."

I reached out then, weaving my fingers through his thick, soft mop of hair. I was allowed to do that now. I loved that. "Because of common courtesy," I said, "I feel obligated to take your sweatshirt."

Sherlock smirked playfully, his eyes melting into my memory. "Only if I'm allowed to call you Johnny."

I scrunched up my face in disgust, it being almost a gag reflex, and shook my head violently. "Sod it," I said. "Keep your damn shirt."

Sherlock shrugged, his hand reaching up and his fingers brushing my cheek. "In all seriousness," he said, "I think I'd like to see you in my clothes."

I smiled. "I love how you smell," I admitted suddenly. "So I definitely wouldn't mind."

"What a coincidence," Sherlock replied, and I furrowed my brow.

"I thought you didn't believe in coincidences."

He shrugged. "Perhaps not," he said. "But I believe in you, and I think that matters a bit more."

I tried to keep myself from smiling, but it was impossible. "Do you think so?"

He nodded, his arms wrapping around my waist. "I do."


	31. № 31

"I'm not telling my parents," I said, watching Sherlock fry eggs in a pan, keeping the baking soda in my field of vision in case he started another fire. Putting out his fires had become routine. I was just like his good, old-fashioned wife.

"Ditto," he replied, unusually flipping the egg over with a great amount of skill. "Possibly Mycroft, depending on how dire the need is to tell him."

"I might tell Harry someday," I thought out loud. "And Mike, perhaps."

Sherlock put an egg on each of our plates, placing the spatula back down on the counter and sitting down next to me rather than across the table. I turned my body at a diagonal so I could see him better, leaning my head on my palm as I watched him watch me.

"John," he asked out of the blue. "Do you believe in a God?"

I cut a corner off of my eggs with my fork. "I would say so," I said. "Why?"

He looked down at his food, which was still steaming on his plate. "Because I didn't used to," he said. "But, after today..." He looked me in the eye, his eyes clouding up just a bit. "...I think I do. I think I believe in God."

"What made you change your mind?" I asked.

He smiled sheepishly down at his food. "I didn't believe in love until today," he said. "I didn't believe it truly existed. But I've learnt that things can exist if you've no proof of them. And something gave me you. Something out there is responsible for having the two of us alive at the same time and same place, for each other. And I think I believe in God." He laughed in awe after finishing, as if he had never thought that those words would escape his mouth. "And, at the same time, I'm wondering what the hell is wrong with me."

"Well, for one," I said, "You decided to love me."

"Nope," he said. "It was an involuntary action." He balanced his fork on his thumb and began tilting it from side to side. I rolled my eyes, turning back to my food until he spoke again.

"John?" he asked. "Do you remember when I came to your window when it was raining and dark and I told you that I had-"

"-Been searching for cocaine?" I asked, finishing his sentence and laughing. "How could I forget?"

"Yes, well, anyway," he said, "I really wasn't looking for cocaine. I just wanted to see you. And I just happened to find an excuse when I almost stepped on Rosie on the way."

I giggled softly before replying, "Remember when I didn't see you for multiple days and you were surprised when I eventually showed up again? Well, that was when I began to know that I was in love with you, and I thought that, if I had time to get my thoughts, well, straight, that it would go away."

Sherlock smiled down at his plate. "I really did think you were never coming back."

"How did you feel when I did?" I asked, and he smirked down at his hands, still fiddling with his fork.

"I was ecstatic," he said. "But I couldn't show it, of course, so I pretended to be investigating things under a microscope so you would think that I had better things to do than miss you."

I laughed. "Well, you did have better things to do. The murder-"

"The murder doesn't count, John," Sherlock interjected. "It wasn't an emotional connection, or my first friend. It was a job. I didn't love or care for it in the same way I do you." His lips tightened a bit, and he suddenly changed the subject before we had the chance of being stuck in an eternal loop of sappy comments.

"You didn't get milk," he said, and I narrowed my eyes.

"You didn't get milk, either," I said, and he scoffed.

"I never get milk. Ever. I'm usually kicked out of the shops before I can purchase it."

Feeling both playful and completely annoyed, I raised my eyebrows and sighed. "Well, what do you suggest we do, then?"

Sherlock took a moment before replying, "I think we should both go get it."

I furrowed my brow, sort of scoffing as I did the mental math. "How would that change anything? That's twice the disaster than we are alone-"

"Now," Sherlock interrupted, standing up. "We're going now."

"Really?" I asked, a bit scared as to how this would turn out.

"Yes, John," he said, but, seeing that I wasn't at all swayed, he sighed. "In the name of science."

I smirked. "Science?"

He nodded hesitantly. "An experiment. It'll be fun."

"Our of all the first date ideas you could have used," I said, "You chose the supermarket."

"All other ideas are tedious and overused," Sherlock spat. "I hate clichés. And we need milk."

"Fine," I said. "Let's go, then."

He began to put on his coat and then added, "John?"

"Yeah?" I asked, slipping my trainers on and looking up at him.

"My concussion didn't hurt that bad," he admitted hesitantly. "I just didn't want you to stop doing the thing with my hair. I like your cuddles." He whipped around as quickly as he could then, and walked out the door before I had a chance to see his face. I knew he was blushing.

☯

"Why are you taking a shopping trolley?" I asked. "We don't need one."

Sherlock pushed it next to me, smiling innocently at my confused expression. "Well, if we'll be making lasagna, we'll need something to put ingredients into."

I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment before opening them and slowly asking, "Why... the hell... are we making lasagna?"

His mouth went into the v-shape again, and I cursed it for being so cute. Sherlock didn't answer, his coat flowing behind him as he led me through the aisles.

"I memorised the recipe," he explained, "so we'll need one box of lasagna noodles and two cans of sauce." He closed his eyes as he mentally scanned the list, perhaps planning our route through the store and estimating the time. I put the cans in the cart, going back to the shelves and stretching to reach the noodles. I found myself on the tips of my toes, even hopping a bit, as my fingers desperately grasped at the empty air near the desired box.

"Why everything has to be so high up, I've no idea..." I mumbled, wishing I were a bit taller. Just a few more centimetres to my height wouldn't hurt. I'd have less trouble with things like this.

I suddenly felt Sherlock behind me, and I saw his hand effortlessly grab the box of noodles, our fingers brushing together as he took it down, smiling stupidly and setting it into the trolley.

"What?" I asked. "Why are you smiling like that?"

He giggled. "Because you're cute."

"Oh," I said, glad he wasn't mocking me. "Well, then, by all means..."

"Ricotta cheese," Sherlock announced. "Aisle seven. Ground beef, aisle five. Shredded cheese, aisle ten. Current location. Aisle two. Route: take the left hand way to aisle five for the beef. Leave the aisle the way we came due to the morbidly obese woman blocking the other end."

"Sherlock!-"

"Don't forget to smile politely at her and pretend I didn't just say that. Take left hand way to aisle seven, where we will find the ricotta cheese, which, for some stupid reason, isn't in the dairy section with the other cheeses. Keep going and take the right hand way to aisle ten, take some cheese, and move quickly to the most efficient register. Estimated time, including needing to help you reach things, wasting time, goofing off and leaving the supermarket: twenty-seven minutes."

Sherlock opened his eyes, smiling slightly. "Did you catch all that?"

I nodded. "Just not sure if I remember it."

"That's fine," he replied, waving his hand submissively in the air. "That's my job."

We turned left as planned, walking past aisles until we reached the fifth, which, just as Sherlock had predicted, was blocked on the other side by a rather heavy woman leaning over and reading a label. It was awkwardly quiet, nobody wanting to speak out of self-conscious social discomfort, so we both did our best to find the ricotta as quickly as possible. One of the wheels of the shopping trolley was squeaking and it kept veering left, and I watched Sherlock's eyes slowly turn insane as we pushed it along. Hopefully he could fix it, being clever and all.

"Ah," Sherlock said quietly, clearly as afraid to make noise as I was. "Ricotta." He found it quickly and took it from the shelf, his thin fingers wrapping around it. He nodded in a rather polite manner to the woman, dropping the cheese in the trolley and leading the both of us a few aisles down.

The meat section. Odd, but necessary. Each shelf lined with what looked like brown worms in packaging, complete with an uncalled for dollop of loose blood. It always made me feel a bit sick and queasy inside, even though I always tried my best not to think about having to grind up chunks of cow meat to package. I wondered what the machine looked like. How did they clean it? Did they ever?

"How much do you want?" Sherlock asked absently, staring at the overabundance of ground beef ahead of us. I pursed my lips, noticing some of the portions looking a bit green. Hopefully it didn't matter when it was cooked.

"Just one, I think," I said, wanting to take as little a chance as possible. "One that looks fresh, and... red, I suppose. Take a safe one."

"How do I tell which ones are safe?" Sherlock asked, so I sighed and did it myself.

"Common sense, genius," I said. "It's uncooked, ground meat. Obviously it has to be red, Sherlock. Not grey or brown or green. All red." I put a relatively trustworthy one into the trolley and Sherlock pulled it out into the aisle on the right hand side, walking next to me until we got to our last stop.

"You're getting the cheese," I said. "I'm done making choices."

Sherlock snorted. "You're only saying that because the pre-shredded cheese is too high up for you to reach."

I smirked. "Shut up."

Sherlock grabbed a few bags of shredded cheese, tossing them to me and slowly walking back. "If we were at home," he said, his voice quiet and low, "I would tell you to make me shut up."

I laughed softly. "Shame we're in public."

He nodded. "Shame everyone here is a homophobe."

"Well," I breathed, "If we were, in fact, at home, I would shut you up. Very quickly. In a heartbeat, actually."

He smiled, his eyes intense as he put each of his hands on my shoulders and pulled himself close to me. He leant down and pressed his nose softly to my neck, inhaling deeply and closing his fluttering eyes. I held him there, craning my neck a bit and wanting to close my eyes, too. But I was far too afraid that someone would see us before we spotted them, so I kept them open.

Sherlock stood back up again, his cheeks flushed as he cleared his throat and hurriedly pushed the trolley along.

"We're making good time," he said, as if none of that had ever happened. "Only sixteen minutes and twenty-three seconds so far. We'll beat my estimation, assuming the register isn't too busy."

I nodded. "Okay."

"I'll pay," he offered kindly, and I shrugged.

"I'll pay you back for half of it." I reasoned.

"No," he said. "The most I'm allowing from you is patience." We got in line at the only open register, the front of our shopping trolley millimetres from hitting the man in front of us.

"Patience?" I asked. "Wha-"

"I also made cookie dough last night," he added. "Because it's Christmas in two days, and I know you'd like to celebrate it, and I'm willing to do that for you."

"Wonderful," I said. "But, patience? Why-"

"Your traditions are important, John, so we should honour them just a bit. And making food together is a cute date idea."

Giving in and forgetting the whole patience thing, I looked up at Sherlock sceptically. "You got that from a book, didn't you?" I asked.

"Doesn't everyone? Amazing what you can find in libraries," Sherlock replied cryptically. He really wasn't one for straight answers. Then again, he wasn't really one for being straight in the first place. I was lucky for that.

☯

Shopping bags painfully compressing the skin and flesh of our undeserving hands, we walked back through the door of our flat, setting the food down on the floor by the refrigerator and waiting for the warmth of the place to set in before removing our coats. Taking my trainers off by stepping on the heel with the toe of my other leg and pulling my foot out, I gasped in frustration as I realised something that would potentially end up driving me mad.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, and I sighed, shaking my head.

"We forgot the milk," I replied. "We forgot the bloody milk."


	32. № 32

Sherlock had, in fact, prepared cookie dough and it was rising in the fridge. He must have done it overnight, too, since I have absolutely no recollection of this phenomenon happening.

Carelessly pouring out ingredients into the counter, Sherlock tossed me an apron and a tall, white, cylindrical piece of fabric.

"Where on Earth did you get your hands on a chef's hat?" I asked, sliding it on my head as he did the same. He smirked playfully, tying his apron around his waist, and put a pot on the stove.

"Angelo, obviously," he chortled, filling the pot with water and turning the stovetop on. "They actually use these there."

"And why are we wearing them?"

He rolled his eyes, dramatically tearing open a packet of lasagna noodles and laying them next to the pot. "Fashion, John," he said almost snobbishly, opening the cans of tomato sauce and pouring them into a pan. "Beef," he announced. "I need the beef." He held his hand out expectantly, the puffy, pillowy bit of his hat flopping down over his eyes as he turned to look at me.

I halfheartedly opened the ground beef, handing it to Sherlock and watching him plop it into the pan with the tomato. He took a spatula and tossed it in my direction. "Chop up the meat and mix it with the sauce over low heat, and then leave it alone." He took the ricotta cheese out of the pile of scattered containers, opening it up and taking off the protective seal. I followed his orders, not caring much for the activity but finding him cute nonetheless.

"You must really like food," I said, spreading the beef around the pan. "I mean, since you're so passionate about it. Not because you're... overweight. Which you aren't. You're actually underweight. A lot. Very much. Almost unhealthily." I cleared my throat awkwardly, realising my sentences were just digging me into a deeper hole as I stretched them out. This was common for me to do.

Sherlock sighed. "I gained three pounds, John," he said. "Three!"

I shrugged. "Could you do eight more?"

He sort of pouted. "I don't want to turn into Mycroft."

I furrowed my brow, my arm movement pausing and the meat beginning to sizzle a bit in the pan. "I really hope that was a joke," I said. "Because if you have an eating disorder, Sherlock-"

"Oh, look," he interrupted dismissively, pointing to the nutrition facts on the side of the ricotta cheese container. "No saturated fat! Wouldn't you know-"

"Sherlock, you don't need to starve yourself because you want to look good," I said. "Don't turn yourself into a corpse, please."

He was quiet for a moment before clenching his jaw and speaking again. "At least I'm more interested in marrying people instead of cake."

I dropped the spatula into the pan, turning around and looking him dead in the eye. "Don't compare yourself to your brother, Sherlock. And please promise me you'll stay healthy. Please."

"I promise," he said hurriedly. "And take the spatula out of the pan before it melts in forty-two seconds."

I did, leaving it on the counter by the stove and watching the food simmer a bit in the pan. "Sherlock," I said, "You know I'd still love you if you weren't skinny."

He rolled his eyes. "Right."

"I would," I said, pointing a finger at his nose. Sherlock shrugged it off and turned around, ignoring me now.

"There's nothing wrong with being... average. Actually, you should be average. It's healthy." I lectured him, my hands hot from working above the stove. My flatmate sighed, picking up the lasagna noodles and beginning to drop them into the almost-boiling water. He watched the steam float upward out of the pan and up to the ceiling, seeming to admire its loose form.

"John?" he asked distantly, his multicoloured eyes moving around as he kept watch of the bubbles in the pot. Still slightly pissed and greatly concerned, I turned to him with a scowl and smiled halfheartedly.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

He pursed his lips, looking down with a slightly troubled expression. "I don't deserve you."

I furrowed my brow. "What?" I asked. "Of course you do. If anyone doesn't deserve the other, I'm sure it's me."

This didn't seem to ease his troubles, and he shook his head slightly, taking a colander from the counter and putting it in the sink in waiting. "John," he said, "I'm so imperfect. So flawed. I'm also a huge pain in the arse. But you..." Sherlock turned, scanning my face and flicking his eyes between my gaze and my lips. "I'm not sure you've ever made a single mistake in your life. Not one that counted, anyway. You're so... kind and lovable and friendly... and I just really think I don't deserve you."

"It might shock you to hear this," I said, "but you, Mr. Holmes, are terribly wrong." I smiled, dramatically rolling my eyes. Sherlock smiled weakly, turning the stove off and pouring the lasagna noodles into the colander in the sink. The steam floated upwards, and I watched it intently. Or perhaps I was watching Sherlock. Just maybe.

Sherlock leaned his weight on his hands now, which were both gripping the sink as he looked downward shamefully. "John," he said, watching the noodles drain. "Are you sure you'd still think I looked good if I gained more weight?"

I scoffed. "It would be hard not to," I said, walking up behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist and hugging him close. "And it doesn't matter how pretty you are. Of course that has something to do with attraction, but I feel like you have so much more to offer than looks. I know you do."

He nodded, taking a baking pan and laying a layer of noodles on the bottom. "You can start on the cookie dough while I do this," he said softly, and I walked to the fridge and took the bowl out.

"Are you sure you don't need help?" I asked, not minding the subject change as I knew the most recent topic was putting him down. Sherlock paused for a moment, his jaw clenched and tight, his shaky fingers stuck holding a lasagna noodle in midair, and then put it down.

"I'm fine," he said.

I didn't pry. I knew it wouldn't be good to. But I took a step over to him, grabbing his arm and turning him to face me. I searched his eyes, not surprised when I saw a bit of extra water in them. I said nothing, staring up at him until he spoke.

"I'm just..." Sherlock took a shaky breath as he tried to keep himself reserved. "I'm just so lucky to have you."

His eyes closed, a tear rolling out of one of them, and he finally broke down, no longer keeping the problem in his head.

"Mycroft always told me how ugly I was..." His lips were pursed as he let himself cry. It wasn't a sob or a desperate bawling fit. It was soft and quiet and gentle, making him seem all the more vulnerable. "My dad would tell me to lose weight so I wouldn't end up like him. Nobody ever told me I looked nice. I'm not sure I ever..." Sherlock sniffled, looking at the floor. "I'm sorry, John. I know this is a burden to you-"

I cut him off as I walked over to the radio, turning it on to some sort of French accordion music. I walked back to my flatmate, gently placing my hand in his and bringing my other up to his shoulder. I always knew he loved dancing, and I was sure it could help.

Sherlock hesitantly rested his free hand on my hip, beginning to step and swing me around just like he had on his date with Molly. I carefully planned what I was going to say as we swayed around the small kitchen with limited space, Sherlock's eyes less intense and more broken as he partially avoided my gaze.

As the song came to a close, I moved my hands to his waist and pulled him close to me, hugging him against my body and staring up at his crumbling face.

"I have always thought you were beautiful," I said softly, "and I promise you I always will." The words weren't very clever or poetic, but they got the point across without the extra fluff, and I'm sure he appreciated it.

"Do you mean it?" Sherlock asked, his bottom lip quivering. I wiped a tear off of it with my thumb and stared up at his vacant and shattered eyes.

"Of course."

My hands glided down from his face and ended up on his shoulders, and I used them to hoist me up so I could reach him. Standing on the tips of my toes, I gently closed my eyes, kissing him softly on the lips as his hands moved to my shoulder blades and the back of my neck.

"I love you," I whispered. I knew that, normally, people wouldn't say that so early in a relationship. But I had known Sherlock for months now, and I had passed the point of simply being in love and reached the point of loving. I knew it for certain. Sherlock deepened the kiss, sighing and placing his hands on my cheeks. He pulled me closer to him, if it was even possible, only stopping the kiss to breathe and then pull me back again.

"John," he whispered breathily between kisses, out of breath just as I was. "John, I love you."

Smirking just enough for him to notice, I shoved Sherlock backwards and pinned him against the wall, my fingers wandering through his hair as his hands moved up and down my back, pulling me tightly against him. I gasped for air every now and then, not much minding when small whimpers escaped my lips.

"John," Sherlock said suddenly. "I hate to stop, but the food needs to be made." His hands wrapped gently around my wrists as he gave me one last peck on the forehead, pulling the both of us back to the food. A bit disappointed, I reminded myself that there was much more time for this later, so I defeatedly rolled out the cookie dough as Sherlock finally put the lasagna into the oven.

"Is there anything stereotypical that we haven't done?" Sherlock asked out of the blue as I cut small circles out of the dough.

"Yes, actually," I said. "Kissing in the rain."

He smiled, taking each circle of dough and laying it on another cookie sheet. "Tell me when it rains, then."

I giggled. "Okay."


	33. № 33

It was in a small box.

The box wasn't tiny, I'd say, but it was small enough to hold in one hand if you held it a certain way. It was a relatively flat box as well, and I had wrapped a ribbon around it.

Sherlock stepped into the room shortly after waking up, his hair messy but adorable as he made his way over to where I was standing and staring out the window at the thinning snow. He stood behind me, his hands on my shoulders, and leant down to give me a short kiss on the cheek.

"Good morning," he murmured quietly, his voice raspy from just waking up.

"Good morning," I replied, and handed him the box. "and merry Christmas."

His mouth made the v-shape again as he took it. "Thank you," he said sheepishly as he handed me an even larger box. "I was expecting that you'd get me something, so I couldn't be left out of the gift-giving," he said, and I smiled.

"Thank you, love," I said.

It took both of us less than a second to realise that neither of us had called the other love up until this very moment, and then Sherlock blushed at the floor and rushed to the other side of the room to make coffee as I stood, completely stunned at the words that had so smoothly fallen out of my mouth. I wasn't supposed to be smooth. But somehow I just had been.

There was no tree. No decoration at all, actually. It was just a casual, normal day, except for the fact that we had both prepared a gift for the other person even though we had both told each other that we didn't want to celebrate this year. And I had called him love. Had I really done that? How? I still couldn't believe it myself.

☯

The box was beautifully wrapped, the paper folded perfectly enough where I knew he'd measured and planned the whole process in his head before even taking out the paper at all. There was a bow on top, complete with a small tag that read My John in a neat cursive hand.

I opened it carefully, trying my best not to ruin the completely flawless wrapping job, and lifted the lid of the box. Sherlock watched expectantly, sitting next to me on the raggedy old sofa and smiling knowingly. I looked inside and chuckled to see, folded up nicely, Sherlock's sweatshirt. Of course. Of course he had remembered the joke.

"Are you obligated to call me Johnny now?" I asked, and he snorted.

"I would never..." Sherlock replied before trailing off.

I took it out of the box, holding it close enough to my nose where I could smell the sweet scent of it and it still wasn't completely obvious what I was doing, and took out the next item. It was a dense notebook, the cover made of a thick, sturdy leather, and I smiled.

"Thank you," I said.

"It's for our next big adventure," Sherlock explained, even though we both knew very well that he didn't have to.

"And what's that?" I asked, and he shrugged.

"From now up until graduation, of course," he said. "That would be a good ending point: getting your degree, planning your life..." He trailed off then, and we both knew the end of the sentence he decided to leave out. Joining the army.

We both knew it was coming, too. Sometimes I thought it would be better to talk about it. But, then again, I wanted to focus on the now instead of dreading the future. But I wanted to do this. I had to. Maybe.

Sherlock had already begun to open his gift as I snapped out of my thoughts. My wrapping job wasn't even half as good as his was, but, then again, I was no genius. And he knew.

In the box was a stack of paper. Not just any regular stack of paper, no. It was notebook paper, and it was written in my hand. His eyes lit up as he realised that the pages were, in fact, from my personal journal, dating back to the day in which we met. I had given him each and every entry that had him in it, the words starting off by talking about how mysterious and odd he was and, eventually, stating how much I loved him. And at the end was a poem. I wrote it, of course, and it had taken me a long time. Even though I didn't think much of it myself - I was no writer, just a mere personal journalist - Sherlock read it over and over, his hand shaking after a while and his eyes glossing over with what I hoped was approval. After a few moments, he took a breath and read it aloud, his voice quivering every now and again as I listened.

"I've not much of an idea

how to write this down

but I will try, starting here,

on a little bench

on a street-lit trail,

my heart sewn raw into

my front shirt pocket.

I admit I was oblivious

to love and to beauty,

as I was so oblivious to you.

But

after time and time again of watching your face,

watching your lips,

your eyes,

your heart,

I began to know what was true.

For, after all,

when you have eliminated the impossible, 

whatever remains, however improbable, 

must be the truth.

You are my truth."

I had written over that line multiple times in my fountain pen, underlining it and making the ink bleed through to the next page. I must have liked it a lot when I wrote it, and I knew Sherlock liked it now, his thin fingers tracing over it as he paused in his speech. Taking a breath again, he kept reading, seemingly as if he was the only person who could hear.

"Perhaps this isn't a beautiful or

highly skilled poem,

But you needed to know

so here I am, telling you

straight out.

If love is a dangerous disadvantage,

I'd rather be the disadvantaged one,

the helpless, endangered one,

than the lonely one,

and I know I will never be the lonely one,

thanks to you.

Merry Christmas. xxx,

John."

I was embarrassed at him reading my writing aloud to me, but I let him, because he liked it. At least, I hoped he did.

His voice thick and quiet, he swallowed, taking a breath and looking at it silently again. "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," he repeated. "I like that. I'm going to remember it."

I nodded, smiling in an accidentally smitten way as he turned back to me, folding the note back up and sticking it back into the box.

"I didn't get you anything special like that," he said.

I smiled. "I didn't even expect you to get me anything at all," I replied, and he seemed to consider it for a while.

After many moments of silence, Sherlock got up and moved over to me, sitting on my lap and pulling me into a tight hug, his arms wrapping around my neck and his nose burrowing into my shoulder.

"I love you, John," he whispered, and I smiled into his neck.

"I love you, too."


	34. № 34

14 March, 2001

I know I haven't written in what seems like forever. To whomever is reading this (which I hope is only myself, but who knows), I'm sure it makes little sense. Truth is, for the first many years in a row of my short, small life, I've been happy.

I finished my studies with the help of my first and only boyfriend. We're still living together for the time being, since he's still in school and I'm in the process of moving out, which is the reason I'm writing today.

I'm not happy anymore.

Not in the way you would think! I'm happy with Sherlock. But I'm not happy because I won't be with Sherlock in about a week.

I've been called to serve my country. It was my doing, really. I could have avoided it and started working at a hospital (maybe even the children's one where I was interviewed the day I met Sherlock), but that never happened. It might never happen at all.

I'm going to Afghanistan. There's a war going on, and I'm only twenty-three. Of course they'd want a young man to assist. And how could I say no?

I literally can't say no. But I'd give anything if I could, just to spend my life with my best friend.

He's planning me a going-away party, and I'm pretending not to know. I was never much for parties. Neither was he. But we both need a distraction, so we'll both get one. And I don't mind.

☯

It was quiet.

Awkward wasn't even the word for it. It was mostly just slow and painful.

From what I'd read in novels, time goes so quickly when you don't want it to. But right here, right now, time was barely even moving. It was almost to the point of which I wanted it to speed up, just so I didn't feel stuck in the grief that I was already dragging myself through. But that would mean less time with Sherlock. And I wanted time with him.

We were flat on our backs, looking up at the ceiling, his arm wrapped around my back as I snuggled in to his side. Neither of us were expecting things to be so slow and sad and silent. It was almost numbing, the feeling. But it was better than feeling nothing.

"John?" Sherlock asked quietly, and I diverted my attention to him.

"Yeah?"

He sighed, chuckling sarcastically. "I feel like shit."

I pursed my lips, my bottom teeth digging into them in an effort to stop myself from breaking down. "Me, too," I replied.

"It's raining," Sherlock suggested, trying to make his voice sound more cheery. "Have we kissed in the rain yet?"

"I don't think so," I replied, so we simultaneously stood up and hurried outside, not because of the anticipation of the kiss itself, but because we both desperately needed something to do. Something to distract us from the days ahead.

My trainers sloshed against the muddy puddles that were forming on the concrete walkway, my hand intertwined with his as we decided without even saying it aloud to take a walk. Sherlock's coat swished behind him, the light fabric of it being dampened by the drizzle as my coat actually protected me from the rain. Although he was never practical when it came to style. He was just stylish when it came down to style.

"Did you hear about the IRA bombing the BBC Television Centre?" Sherlock asked, and I nodded.

"We talked about it just the other day, remember?"

"Oh," he responded. "That's right."

There was nothing to talk about. And that was a pain in the arse. Usually there was always something to discuss, something to laugh about or talk about or joke about at the dinner table. But there wasn't any of that right now. And it wasn't like we had run dry of ideas, either; it was just that everything was too much, and life was too heavy for us to think about anything worthwhile to say.

Usually we were able to make each other feel better about things. But it just wasn't like that at the moment. We were both too sad and scared and cold to care.

But we still spent our days close to each other. We still would slow dance around the kitchen table and cuddle up together on the sofa and comfort each other in the middle of the night on the rare occasion of which either of us would wake up after a nightmare. Almost all of our time was spent by us just touching each other, holding hands, leaning into each other's arms. But silently, because we were sad.

"Should I fluff up my hair?"

I blinked. "Sorry, what?"

"When I kiss you. Should I fluff up my hair?"

I gave a weak smile. "I mean, it is pretty cute when you do that..."

Sherlock sighed. "For God's sakes, just answer the question."

Looking up at his tall figure, I shrugged. "I was thinking that maybe I should fluff it up for you instead."

He raised his eyebrows. "This isn't the Ritz, John," he joked flatly. "I'm fully capable of doing it on my own."

"Perhaps you are," I reasoned. "But I'd still love to cater to that need myself."

"Hm." he said, nodding curtly, his fingers holding my hands so hard that I was afraid mine would bruise. Perhaps he was afraid that he'd accidentally let go.

The rain patting softly on my hair and nose, I turned to Sherlock, pulling the collar of his coat to me so I could reach him, gently pressing my lips against his. When was the last time we had kissed? Last week? I wasn't even sure it was that recent. I was too depressed, too utterly broken to tell.

His hands trailed up and down my arms, his nostrils flaring as he kissed me back. He breathed harshly, not out of love or lust, but because of the reason both of us were so desperate: the kiss was cold and dead.

They didn't used to be like this. We were always full of passion and warmth and feeling. And it wasn't the rain that kept us from breathing life into it now. No matter how desperate we were, no matter how roughly we forced our lips together, no matter how much we wanted it to not be this way, the kiss was still dead.

So, both of us sadly realising the truth, Sherlock stepped back, panting slightly, his eyes sad yet still bright as I untangled my hands from his hair. We stood in silence for a moment or so, his eyes staring at the ground as I stared at him.

"Our checklist is complete," he said quietly, his brows tense and furrowed the slightest bit as his strained expression faced the wet grass. We both knew we had no choice but to let go. We only had a few days left. And it, whatever it was, was gone. It wasn't the love that left, though. I still loved him likely more than I loved my family and myself. But something was missing, and it probably wouldn't come back before I left.

And I began to cry.

It was slobbery and disgraceful and I made some awful noises, but I couldn't help myself. I had to leave. I no longer had a choice. I was obligated to go and risk my life and leave this amazing person behind and everything was wrong and fucked up and it was all because of the bloody stupid military.

"I'm so sorry," I wailed as Sherlock stood, stunned, in front of me. "I'm so sorry..."

"Oh, John..." Sherlock said, hugging me as I practically fell into him. My arms wrapped around his rib cage beneath his coat as his head leant over on top of mine.

"I still love you, I promise," I choked out, shaking violently as I sobbed into his shirt. "It's not your fault. It's mine. I don't want to go..."

"John," he said quietly into my ear, "It's okay. Everything is okay."

Feeling like I wanted to collapse, I whimpered, my hands locking around his back. "No, it's not," I replied weakly, feeling his hand stroking my head as if I were a lost puppy. Maybe I was.

"No, it's not," he agreed. "But it is what it is."

Him and his bloody inspirational quotes.

"Well, what it is," I sniffed, "is shit."

He was silent, in quiet agreement, closing his eyes and pressing his face brokenly to my hair.

"I haven't fallen out of love," I said suddenly. "I really haven't. I just..."

"I know."

We stood there, silently, both of our minds wandering. It was a good thing to serve my country. It was the right thing to do. The noble thing, actually. I used to be so excited to do it. So why was I in such a wreck now, of all times? My big moment was just around the corner. I should embrace it, I told myself. I should be excited to do this.

My mouth was dry, my throat raw from sobbing for so long. My face felt tingly, likely from breathing so fast.

"I love you, Sherlock," I said weakly, almost wanting to die.

He smiled into my hair, kissing the top of my head, taking my hand and leading me inside.

"And I you, my dear Watson."


	35. № 35

It wasn't much of a party at all, and for that I was grateful.

Molly came, along with Irene and a few people from Lestrade's internship work at the Scotland Yard. The sun was out that day, so we all gladly took advantage of that and sat outside at a wooden outdoor table. Sherlock had been letting his hair grow out recently, and his thick brown swoop had started to completely cover his forehead. His hair was getting darker, too, and I liked it. It was a lighter, more innocent brown when I met him.

He was sketching in my notebook, the one he had bought me for Christmas so long ago, and he glanced up at me every now and then. He sat across from me at the picnic table as everyone else sat around us on the grass. They were all joking around, but the commotion became closer to a sort of white noise, the sound blurring together before they hit my ears. I stared out ahead of me at the dormitory building, my eyes tracing the fine white lines between each and every red and crumbling brick. Nobody paid much attention to me. Sherlock likely never informed them of the reason behind the occasion because we needed a distraction, not a self-centred party.

"-and so we all ran up the stairs, and turns out she had only dropped one of them! And it didn't even break!"

Molly laughed at Lestrade's story, encouraging him even though everyone else around the circle was barely listening.

My boxes had been packed days ago. There was nothing more to do, except for getting into my uniform and stepping on the plane. And life was so boring.

Harry had called the other day, saving me from the agony of living in this hell. She told me that our father had overdosed on alcohol and likely wouldn't make it. I didn't even care. But she did, which I thought was sweet.

She had cut it off with Irene, she had informed me. I gave her my sympathy, even though I was very glad it still wasn't going on. She said she didn't want me to go. I told her I didn't, either.

"I love you, my little Watson," her voice crackled on the other line, the sentence one that Sherlock had used many times over the years.

"I love you, too, Harry," I replied weakly.

"I won't be able to call after today," she said. "I'll be taking care of Dad, and arranging everything. I suppose you won't be able to make it to any funerals or anything." She chortled sarcastically, and I forced a smile even though she couldn't see it.

"Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"If I..." I sighed, watching Sherlock stare sadly at me on the other side of the room. "If I... if I die, know that you're the best sister I could ask for."

She was quiet for once, her usually spunky personality dampened by the severity and possibility of the sentence. Taking a breath and sighing it out, I could almost hear her closing her eyes. "You're a great brother, John."

I nodded. "Tell Mum I said hi."

"Bye, John."

She never called back.

I didn't know how Dad was. I didn't bother to find out. I didn't want to think about my family right now, because then I would just know about more people I was going to leave behind. And there was already one too many, and he was sitting right in front of me.

Molly and Lestrade were conversing quietly now, the rest of the group on their own a few yards off. Turning to Sherlock, I watched his hand moving as he sketched lightly on the paper.

"What are you drawing?" I asked monotonously, and he smiled weakly back.

"I'm drawing you," he replied. "See?" He turned the notebook to me, showing an amazingly accurate depiction of what I hoped I didn't look like.

In slight awe but also a bit disappointed, I narrowed my eyes. "Is my nose really that big?" I asked.

He giggled. "Do you not see how cute you are?" He ripped out the page, folded it up, and put it in the front pocket of his purple button-up shirt. "You're really missing out."

"Hey, Sherlock!" Lestrade called from where he was standing with Molly. "We're going to get a few drinks. Coming?"

Sherlock looked at me and shrugged. "Might as well," he replied. "Something to do."

In a way, I was angry. Angry at life and the world and the universe and maybe even God. I was furious at myself for deciding to go in the first place, furious at my parents for not raising me in a way nurturing enough for me not to want to sacrifice myself for a social construct such as a country. And, as we all packed into two taxis, Sherlock in a different one as I sandwiched myself between Molly and Sally Donovan, I realised that I was angry with Sherlock Holmes.

I wished for a fleeting moment that he hadn't shown up and made me feel. He was the reason I didn't want to leave. He was the reason I felt love and happiness and real things in my everyday life. Why did it have to be this way? If I were alone, I wouldn't be feeling so torn.

But it was a good thing that I loved him. I wasn't sure exactly why, but loving someone felt good, and I knew it was better than feeling numb.

I didn't get any drinks. I wanted to be responsible, not only for myself but for Sherlock, who didn't seem to be thinking about how much alcohol he was consuming. Sitting quietly next to him as he joked with the others, I stared at the thickly stained table and wished the very hardest I could that I didn't have to feel this way anymore.

Far after the rest of them left, I sat next to my boyfriend, who was giggling and almost toppling over, being all cute and adorable and disoriented. But, oh, how I wished I could forget him. Just to forget the pain. If only that were an option.


	36. № 36

Stumbling back into our room, I helped Sherlock into his bed, tucking him in and watching him slowly fall asleep as I sat on my own. The drawing he did of me was sticking out of his pocket, and I took it in my front few fingers, sitting down on my bed and unfolding it.

It was perfect. Of course it was. Perfectly calculated, perfectly drawn, each pencil line shaping my face as accurately as it possibly could. That was what happened when you were a genius: you had the power to do anything that your mind could control.

He had drawn a little heart in the bottom right corner, and I smiled sadly to myself as I looked down at it.

It was nighttime. I hated nighttime. It meant one more day was over. One less day with him. One less day before leaving for war. And it meant that, even though time was moving so slowly, it was still able to slip through my fingers like sand. I hated sand.

I didn't want to sleep. Sleeping wasted time as well. But what was the use of staying awake? I was bound to fall asleep at some point, so it would be better to do it now, with Sherlock asleep as well. Then I knew for sure I wouldn't be missing out on much.

I was glad I had decided not to drink. I was, in all honesty, scared of becoming my father, and I was more than willing to go to extreme measures to keep from doing so.

"John?" Sherlock mumbled drunkenly, and I looked over at him from my bed, surprised that he was still awake.

"Yes?"

"Ibuprofen, water. Bedside table. I can't remember exactly why..." He raised a slow finger and pointed in a random direction, as if that signified where everything was.

"Oh, right," I said. It was the plan for hangovers. But who knows if he'd even end up getting one at all, him being clever and prepared and all. Standing up, I left the room, taking a few pills from the cupboard and filling a glass of water, bringing them back into the room and setting them where I was supposed to.

"John?" Sherlock breathed. "You... came back?" His words were slurred and slow, his voice desperate and surprised.

I furrowed my brow, nodding. "Yeah," I replied. "I only left for a few moments."

"Will you come back that soon after you really leave?" he asked brokenly, and I realised with a sort of confused jolt that he was crying.

"Um..." I bit my lip, an awful pain in my chest as I watched him cry. I wouldn't tell him no. Now was not the time to say such things. And I didn't want to lie to myself, either. "I'll be back before you know it."

I walked over to his bed, rolling him over on his back and sitting down next to him. His cheeks were wet, and I tried my best to wipe the tears off with my thumb.

"Promise?" he asked, and I forced myself to nod in reply.

"Pinkie-swear."

I offered him my little finger and he instantly wrapped his own around it, seeming to feel instantly relieved. I wished promising that way could solve the problem we faced. After a while, I took my pinkie away from his and twined all my fingers with his own instead.

Sherlock closed his eyes, and I gently held his hand as he added, "I want to cry all the time when I think about you... doing the leaving. On the plane... thing." He opened his eyes again, staring back up at me as his bottom lip quivered. "Is that okay?"

I smiled sadly down at him. "Of course it's okay," I said. "Sometimes I want to cry, too."

"Do you really?" he mumbled, and I stroked his soft hair with my hand.

"Of course I do," I replied. "Now get some sleep." I leant over and kissed his forehead, making him smile and giggle like a child as I walked off and got into bed, biting the inside of my cheek so I wouldn't start crying too.

☯

One less day left. One less than there was yesterday. I didn't even know how many I had left exactly. I just knew that yesterday I had one more.

In a way it was a sort of relief, the days speeding up like that even though every moment felt so slow. It meant less agony, less dread. But, like I told myself time and time again, it meant less Sherlock, too.

Sherlock was staring out the window when I got up, his head in his hands. He sat backwards on the sofa, his elbows resting on the windowsill, his lips pursed as he stared at the sunlit grass below. I went and sat next to him, alerting him by setting my hand on his shoulder.

"Good morning," I said.

"Morning," he replied flatly, his face still turned away at the window. I crossed my legs and cleared my throat, feeling extremely awkward all of a sudden.

"Hangover?" I asked, and he shrugged.

"Must be."

He turned to face me then, and I felt a pain rip through my chest as I saw his red and puffy eyes look at me and then glance away again. He was crying, and he wasn't even drunk.

"Oh," I realised suddenly, the pain hitting my chest for the second time. "Tomorrow."

He nodded. "Tomorrow."

Usually when I dreaded things, it was almost impossible to ignore the date. But now it was as if I had forgotten time existed entirely. And now that I knew it was almost up, I was afraid that it would go quickly, just as it was said to go in films and books. I hoped it wouldn't. I'd much rather have had more time with him than a lack of agonising and slow pain, even though I had been debating that in my head all week. I didn't want to miss him. I wanted to be with him.

Today was my last full day at home. Tomorrow, I'd be picked up and swept away and plopped down in Afghanistan with a uniform and a bag of medical supplies. Alone. Alone not in the sense of being the only person in the area, but alone in the sense that I would know no one, love no one, be with no one I cared for. And that was happening tomorrow.

"We're going out," Sherlock announced. "Nothing special. Just to Angelo's and back. And then we'll spend time back here, no matter how painful or shitty it may be. Closure is healthy, and it's best for both of us. That's what Mycroft said, anyway." He inhaled sharply and then let it out slowly. "He doesn't believe in sappy things like closure, though. He's just saying that because he doesn't want me to get back on drugs."

I nodded. "That'll be... good."

Sherlock swallowed, his eyes half-closed as he looked down at the windowsill. "Yes."

I awkwardly took my hand off of his shoulder then, tucking it under my other palm in my lap and staring out at the street. "You know," I said, "Sometimes I wish I could just... forget."

He was quiet, his eyes closed now. Maybe he was thinking. But I kept talking, anyway.

"I don't want to miss you," I said. "And I know that it's best if you don't miss me, either. We both know very well how you choose to deal with pain." I sighed, folding my arms together and flopping over so I was flat on my back. "But, at the same time, I wouldn't change anything. I'm glad I met you. So glad..." I trailed off, staring up at the ceiling as Sherlock turned and took my hand in both of his, tracing his thumb across my knuckles and staring down at it as if it were the most precious gem in the world.

"Me, too," he whispered, the redness of his eyes beginning to fade away. We stayed there for a few moments, just thinking, not bothering at all to try and make conversation. Talking was so pointless, so trivial in times such as these. What was the purpose if all we could talk about were things that made the pain worse?

Sherlock abruptly hopped up off of the sofa, crossing the room to the door and taking his coat off the hook where it was standing. "Let's go," he ordered loudly, sighing and closing his eyes for a brief moment as I made my way to the door.

"Why do you always wear that coat?" I asked. "It's not even chilly out."

He smiled weakly, his arms pulling through the sleeves as I slipped my trainers on. "You like it when I wear my coat, Watson," he responded playfully. I liked when he called me that. It was weird, but it just sort of... worked. "Don't even try to deny it. I see your eyes."

I felt my face heat up as he stared at me with a smug expression. "I... I don't know what you're talking about."

He rolled his eyes as if to say, "Of course you don't," and then replied, "Well, I do."

I didn't try to argue. Not with a genius. So I silently followed him out the door, down the lift, and out to hail a taxi.

☯

We shared a dish. I can't recall what it was because I was too busy focusing on him, trying to take in his face and body and voice and eyes and remember exactly how they looked so I could remember them when I wanted to. It was my last chance to remember him, really. Or, at least, to remember him correctly.

"So," I said, suddenly thinking of a question worth asking. "The future."

He was stiff, his spine straight, his muscles tense as he stared intensely at me. "Yes." he replied shortly, as if holding something back. I took some food on my fork but didn't eat it, holding it in the air as a sort of prop or something.

"What are you going to do?" I enquired. He looked up at the ceiling in thought, and then looked back down at me.

"I'm going to wait for you to come back," he said, "and when you do, I'm going to solve crimes with you again. We'll be older, but it'll happen." He shifted in his seat, and I sighed.

"Sherlock," I said, "it's possible that I won't-"

"Let's not amuse that possibility, John."

"But why would you wait if-"

"Because I want to." Sherlock growled in what sounded like anger, and I was immediately silenced. He cleared his throat, calmed his voice, and, closing his eyes, repeated: "I want to."

My mouth hanging open in a mixture of confusion, irritation and disbelief, I watched him stand up suddenly and pull his coat back on. "Let's go home," he said. "We have no time to lose."

The ride home was silent, and Sherlock was still on edge, his fingers tapping his knee, which was crossed over the other in a seemingly uncomfortable position. I watched him, wondering what was wrong other than the obvious. He didn't seem sad at all. He seemed... urgent, or something. I didn't know.

But that was how he was. Urgent. Needing to be somewhere and doing something at any specific time, usually the ones where it was least convenient. I had learnt to accept that over the years, but then I got to thinking: Why now? Now was the worst possible time for him to be his usual, harsh, on-edge self.

We stood silently in the lift, me leaning against the wall and him pacing back and forth inside the small room. I watched the light by the door increase in number until it said FOUR in bright, neon letters. Sherlock barged out as the doors opened, and I had to jog to keep up with his rushed, inconsiderate pace. Usually he would slow down for me. But he must have been preoccupied.

"Sherlock?" I asked as I walked through our door and into our room. He was at the window, his coat strewn sloppily across the floor, his hands anxiously running through his own hair. "Sherlock? Hello? Anyone home?"

He turned around on his heel to face me and stood for a few blank moments before rushing over to me, his strides long and hurried as he closed the door with one hand and pulled me into a kiss with the other. I sort of melted into him, feeling the warmth that we had lacked just the other day, knowing that this was our last day.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, already out of breath. "I couldn't do this in public." His tongue traced my lower lip as he let himself catch his breath, and I slipped off my trainers and kicked them over to the wall as my hands slid up to his neck. I leant to the side a bit, starting at the corner of his lip and moving down to his jaw, leaving a trail of kisses all the way to his neck. And I was maybe, just maybe, on the tips of my toes. But I'm not confirming nor denying anything.

This was it, I told myself. This is it. One of my last memories with Sherlock Holmes. Make it a good one.

Smiling at the fact that we'd finally found the passion again, not letting it be clouded by grief, I kissed Sherlock on the lips again and moved my fingers to his shirt collar. "May I?"

He smirked. "I was afraid you'd never ask."

His hands trailing down to my thighs, Sherlock picked me up and carried me to the bedroom as I slowly undid the buttons of his shirt. He leant his back against the door to close it, and I pushed him up against it so he couldn't move away. I felt his teeth against my tongue as I kissed him deeply, helping him shrug off his shirt and toss it to the floor. I stepped back just a bit, remembering that I was allowed to look at him now that I was no longer hiding anything, and I felt my breath catch in my throat as I saw the sight before me.

He wasn't stereotypically muscular. He was no bodybuilder or superhero or medieval warrior. He was thin and soft and still toned, and he was beautiful. Without even thinking, I watched my own hand touch his chest and trail down to his belly, which was apparently and adorably ticklish, since he drew back and sort of hissed when I did. Giggling and smitten, I took my jumper by the back of its collar and pulled it over my head as Sherlock guided the two of us to the bed.

I flopped back on my spine, Sherlock climbing on top of me and kissing my lips with the same intensity he'd possessed so many years ago, his hands in my hair as mine slid his trousers off and then tossed them on the floor by the window.

He broke the kiss then, panting and staring down at me, his hands tracing my skin where they hadn't before. I felt self-conscious, shirtless in front of him like this. I was never as thin or curved as he was. My stomach wasn't even close to flat like his. But he, somehow, thought I looked nice anyway.

"This is escalating quickly," I smirked, feeling him smile as he kissed my neck.

"Damned hormones," he replied, pulling his own pants off and then helping me with mine.

I laughed softly, even though I was simultaneously terrified. Sherlock leant over me for a bit, staring into my eyes for a long time before I broke the silence.

"Sherlock?" I asked, my face reddening as he looked down at me, his thin yet muscular chest inflating as he breathed. I wanted to kiss his collarbones. I wanted to feel his heart against my chin. I knew he had one.

"Yes?" he asked, his hair flopping down as he looked down at me.

I pursed my lips in embarrassment. "I actually don't know how this works."

He smiled a little bit, biting his bottom lip and nodding. "That's okay," he breathed, leaning down on top of me and bringing his mouth slowly to my ear. "Just follow my lead."

As always, I didn't mind that at all.


	37. № 37

My eyes snapped open, and I jumped up.

"Shit," I said, feeling suddenly overexposed and covering myself with a few bedsheets as I grabbed a pile of clothes from the floor. "What time is it?"

Looking over at the digital clock on the bedside table, I furrowed my brow as no time was displayed on it. Pressing a few buttons, I pursed my lips in stress as I didn't succeed at figuring it out.

"John?" Sherlock mumbled, his bottom half covered by blankets as he slowly blinked awake. I sighed, slamming my hand down on the clock and gritting my teeth together.

"What time is it?" I asked, and he squinted in the early morning sun, sitting up and wiping the sleep out of his eyes with his fingers.

"I don't know," he said. "That thing's been broken for two weeks."

"Has it?"

"Do you doubt its brokenness?" Sherlock deadpanned, checking his wrist by instinct and being awkwardly surprised as he found that his wristwatch was still secured around it. "Hm. Must have forgotten to take this off," he mumbled before answering, "It's 8:26."

I breathed a sigh of relief, and then felt the relief turn to sadness again. Today was the day. And twelve was the hour.

"Three hours and thirty-four minutes," Sherlock said quietly, and I sighed. I needed to stop feeling.

But I decided to stop feeling later because Sherlock looked nice sitting up against the headboard like that, the sunlight bouncing off his chest and somehow hitting his eyes. I walked over and kissed his lips quickly before walking out of the room, my sheet trailing behind me. "I'll be right back," I said. "I have to shower."

"I know," he said, smiling and watching me go. "John?" he called just before I left the doorway. I turned around swiftly as his mouth made the v-shaped smile again.

"Yes?" I asked.

His cheeks reddened a bit as he smirked sheepishly. "I love you," he announced, even though I already knew.

"I love you, too, my darling Holmes," I replied with a smirk before turning back and walking to the shower.

☯

I cut my hair, which was long enough to make a sort of fringe if I only decided to style it that way, short enough so it wouldn't respond to product of any sort. It felt good and clean and cool, but it looked absolutely terrible. But short hair was the standard for the military. And I may as well have cut it ahead of time, for convenience.

For some odd reason, I was able to suppress everything today. I didn't feel like throwing a fit because it was something I simply had to do and get over with. For some reason, I felt too rushed to feel pain. And that was a good thing.

I grabbed for the clothing I'd brought to the room and realised that if grabbed Sherlock's shirt on accident. I smiled to myself and tried my best not to think about the night before, but then paused as I remembered that I shouldn't be wearing a normal shirt.

I pulled my pants on, because I could at least wear those, and opened the bathroom door.

"Sherlock?" I called, hearing a muffled "Yeah?" in response.

I paused, swallowing and forcing the words I didn't want to face out of my throat.

"Could you bring my uniform?"

There was a moment of still silence, but then I heard the rustle of bedsheets and the squeak of the dresser drawer, and Sherlock walked in with a large army suit in his arms. And, God, he was wearing my jumper.

I didn't know why I found that so special. But I loved it. And, as if he felt the need to justify it, Sherlock feebly explained:

"In my defence, you took my shirt."

I smiled. "Perhaps it's a good thing I did."

He smirked and handed me my clothes, helping me put the top half on as I slid into the trousers.

"You cut your hair," he noticed as he zipped and buttoned my shirt closed. I nodded, looking at the floor.

"I know," I said. "I just thought it'd be better to do it now rather than-"

"It's cute," he said. "I like it."

I was taken aback, and I stood, unmoving, in front of him. "Oh," I said. "Thank you."

"And you really should look at yourself with that uniform on," Sherlock added, winking at me, which was something I didn't recall him ever doing before. I turned round to the mirror, half-pleased myself as to how I looked. I didn't appear terrible at all, really, which was a good thing.

"Well," said Sherlock, looking me over up and down. "We have two hours."

"Did I really take that long?" I asked.

"You cut your hair with a pair of crafting scissors, John," Sherlock snorted. "If I were you, I wouldn't expect much else."

"I couldn't find the shaver," I grumbled, and Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I broke it," he confessed, "because I put it in the microwave."

I threw my hands up in the air. "You put it-" I cut myself off and sighed. Now was not the time to get mad. Not when there were only two hours left.

"The microwave broke, too," he pouted. "I have to be honest. I didn't expect that one."

"Oh, you're a genius, Sherlock," I smirked. Why should I even care about him breaking things? I wouldn't even need them in a matter of hours. He could do whatever the hell he wanted with them.

"My Watson," he said, smiling and pulling me in, "I'm well aware."


	38. № 38

The knife, still embedded in the table, was beginning to rust over. We both sat next to each other, me leaning on Sherlock's shoulder, and stared at it.

"I ought to take that knife out of the wood before I move out," Sherlock mumbled, and I smiled.

"Have fun with that operation."

"I will," he replied. "It'd be more fun with you, though."

We were quiet, as we had been all morning, and a sudden thought occurred to me. I sat up straight and sighed, looking down at my hands.

"I feel like I'm boring you," I said. "I feel like there are so many things we could have done today. But instead we're just sitting here and doing nothing. And I'm not making any grand, romantic speeches like they do in films, and there's no substance. It's just sitting together. And I'm sorry I couldn't make it special."

Sherlock sighed and pulled me in to him, nuzzling his face into my short cut hair. "It's okay," he whispered. "As long as we're together, it's okay."

Swallowing my emotion, I closed my eyes to block any tears that may try to come. "What about after I've left?"

He didn't answer. He didn't need to.

I had the bare necessities in a duffel bag that had been provided with my uniform. It was sitting at my feet, and I tried my best to keep my mind off of it. If I thought about it too much, I'd start to cry. And I didn't want that.

Just as I had feared, the time began to speed up, even though it was painfully silent and slow. There were now fifteen minutes left. And all I wanted to do was curl up into Sherlock's side. Forever.

Sherlock was silent, and I knew he was holding back tears as well. Neither of us spoke in fear that we'd erupt and crumble into puddles of tears and become slobbering, sobbing messes. I would have told him how much I loved him. I would have listed all the cute things I knew about him. But I knew it was best to keep my jaw shut and stop thinking.

And, as if no time had passed at all, there was a knock at the door.

Sherlock stiffened in his seat, and I froze, my spine tensing up and not wanting to move at all, ever, for the rest of my life. And, now that I was going to war, who knew how long that'd be.

"Mycroft." Sherlock choked out, his voice a desperate whisper. "He's here." He inhaled sharply, his breath shaking as he stood up, his legs and knees vacillating slightly as we both made our way to the door. I was bringing none of my personal belongings. Not even my trainers. Sherlock had to keep those until I got back. Maybe even forever.

My boots felt loose and heavy on my feet, perhaps bolting me to the floor. My bag was lead on my shoulder, even though there was barely anything in it. Sherlock's shaking hand opened the door.

"Hello," Mycroft said, clearly not remembering my name. "I've been requested to drive you."

I nodded, pursing my lips and biting the inside of my cheek. "Yeah." I whispered, trying to keep the tears from falling. But my eyes were already becoming blurry, my throat already tight, and I was afraid that I might fail at it. I was almost positive I would.

"Well, then, let's go." Mycroft snarled. "I don't have all day, you know."

I didn't want to look back at Sherlock, but I did anyway. He was so beautiful. I loved him so much. And that was almost all I knew as I watched his face suddenly crumble into a sob, his body falling forward to the floor and his arms hugging me around the knees. I bit my lip as hard as I could, even trying to smile to stop myself from crying. But nothing worked. I sniffed quietly as a tear rolled slowly down my cheek. Stop it, John, I thought to myself. Be a soldier, dammit.

"John," Sherlock sobbed, trying to stand up and leaning on me for support. "I'm not okay, John. I won't be okay without you."

I shut my eyes as tightly as I could, trying to distract myself from the tears. "No," I said. "You'll be okay. You'll be okay."

"No, I won't. I know for sure," he replied, swallowing and taking a shaky breath. "And that's why... Well, I thought about what you said..." He looked down at the floor as I sniffled, furrowing my brow in confusion.

"What did I say?" I asked.

"You said you sometimes wanted to forget me," Sherlock replied, and I nodded.

"Yes, but that's impossible."

He took a breath. "You know - we both know - very well that that's not exactly true."

I clenched my jaw, trying to fight the rush of emotions surging through me. Sherlock reached down into his pocket with his left hand and pulled out two small black pills, holding them out in front of him. I gasped softly, remembering where they had come from.

They were the ones from Mary. The ones that would make me forget.

My fingers shaking, I hesitantly took one of them in my hand. This is for the better, I told myself. Come on, John.

"John, the reason is that... really, what I'm trying to say is, if you... if you, in battle, well, passed on..." Sherlock stammered through his tears, keeping his eyes locked with mine for as long as he could before he made himself forget them. "I don't want to miss you, and I don't want to hurt."

Mycroft began to sort of growl. "Please do get a move on."

The pill, even though it was so small and insignificant, felt heavy in my hand. Everything felt so heavy. I didn't want to carry it anymore. It took me all the willpower I had in my short, small body to not put the bag on the floor and run away where authorities could never find me.

Trying to stop my own sobbing, I smelt Sherlock for one last time as he leant into my ear and whispered, "John..."

He took my hand so that Mycroft couldn't see, his warm around mine.

"Someday, I assure you, we will meet again," he breathed soothingly, sniffling every now and then. I swallowed, trying to engravings every part of him into my memory before I lost it.

"And, after that," Sherlock whispered even more quietly. "After that, someday, I promise I am going to marry you."

I sobbed silently, covering my mouth with my own hand to stop any noise from leaving it. Mycroft sighed.

"I'm leaving in exactly thirty seconds, regardless of whether or not your soap-opera-themed proposal is finished," he barked. "You're either coming or you aren't."

Sherlock pulled away from me, his face broken and devastated, and he stuck out the hand which wasn't holding a pill in an offering. I reached out with mine and shook it, nodding curtly and trying to ignore the knot on my stomach.

"To the best of times, John," he said, and I nodded.

"To the best of times."

I began walking away, very aware of the pill I held in my palm. Mycroft held the door for me as I began to leave the room, and Sherlock called to me one more time.

"John?"

I turned around and looked back at him. "Yes?"

"Say my name one more time," he said. "Please."

I smiled weakly, my eyes wet and my heart wrenched. "I love you, Sherlock."

And he froze right there, almost happily, as if he were tucking the sound into his mind. His eyes were closed and serene, and along with them I let the door finally latch shut.

Sherlock later opened his eyes to find himself alone, so, painfully, he swallowed the pill and tried not to think about drugs.

I, on the other side of the door, swallowed the pill and tried not to think about him.


	39. № 39

I couldn't remember anything about the past four years. Absolutely nothing at all.

I did remember going to classes and writing papers. I remembered doing mock surgeries on dead corpses. I remembered learning the human anatomy. But I barely remembered anything else.

Perhaps it was because of my sleep deprivation. I hadn't got much sleep in school, so maybe it sort of erased my memory. Or perhaps I forgot because I didn't do anything relatively important in that time.

So when a bloke in the seat next to me on the plane asked me what I liked to do, I had no idea what to say.

"Um, I like to read," I had lied carelessly. Which wasn't a complete lie. I used to read classics. I had barely read at all recently.

"Cool," he said. "What sorts of things?"

I shrugged. "Classics. Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, things like that. I like the emotion and the depth and all that." That was a lie. I didn't. I was only in it for fun.

He sort of chortled, his left foot stomping on the floor of the plane. "You gay, mate?"

Taken aback, I felt myself become immediately infuriated. "No," I replied with a scoff. "I'm not. I'm not gay."

He raised his eyebrows incredulously. "No straight man ever reads emotional classic romance," he muttered, and I sighed.

"I swear on my own mum that I'm not actually gay."

He laughed, making the kind of face where I couldn't tell if he was serious or just fucking with my head. How did he even have the ability to laugh? We were going to bloody war.

After snorting and regaining his composure, he slapped me on the back with his hand. "We'll see about that," he snickered, and I glared put the window as he finished his damned giggling.

Yeah, we bloody will, alright, I thought.

We'll see.


	40. № 40

I had returned. I was back in London. And, unsurprisingly enough, I was a coldhearted, lonely, broken man.

The nightmares, in all honesty, never stopped. Not at all. I could barely sleep, waking up with a jolt every time I dreamt. The moment I closed my eyes, I was on the battlefield, and there was blood, and people were screaming, and I could barely help them even though it was what I was supposed to do.

There were explosions and dust particles flying and hitting my face. I could still feel the uniform on my back, even though I had permanently taken it off just a month or so ago. I had developed bags under my eyes from the lack of sleep, frown lines from my stress, and a cold expression from the pain.

But, suddenly, almost out of nowhere at all, that changed.

I had found a flat share. And it wasn't any normal flat share that one would hear about. It was with - and you are not going to believe this - a genius.

He was closed-off as a person, really. He didn't seem to care about love, almost to the point of which I wondered if he had been hurt a long time ago and was trying to cover it up. Perhaps I was reading into him too deeply.

He was extremely tall - or maybe he was just average sized; it's hard to tell when you're short - and he had thick, dark brown hair that bounced off his head in waves. He was deathly skinny, and very odd, but at least he knew how to tie a scarf.

And, being a genius, I expected him to be making some sort of unheard-of discovery. Perhaps resurrecting dead bodies like Frankenstein. But, even though he was definitely clever enough to, he decided not to be a scientist. This man had decided to be a detective. And not any regular detective, either. A consulting detective. Which is a job that doesn't exist. Or, at least, it didn't used to, but it did now.

And he had a weird name, too: Sherlock Holmes. Who had ever heard of a names disastrous as that before? Although it was kind of a sexy name, which I was sort of jealous of. He probably lured all the ladies in that way. And not just because of his name.

He had a very symmetrical face. He was young, about my age, except he looked a lot younger due to his lack of stress. He had clear skin and high cheekbones, bright, multicoloured eyes and heart-shaped lips. He was the kind of person where you begin to doubt the legitimacy of their existence just because they're too perfect to even be alive.

But he was real. He had to have been, somewhere. Somewhere, deep down inside of him, he had to have a heart. Even a small bit of emotion, for a fleeting moment, must have struck him at some point. And I refused to let that belief go.

He had a long coat. It was black and seemingly expensive, and he likely got it out of a deal or something. He had unfolded the coat collar so that it stuck straight up, and, though it was odd, it didn't look half bad.

Not that I was gay. Because I wasn't.

My hand was wrapped firmly around my cane, my fingers wound so tightly around it that I thought they might end up breaking themselves. Sherlock Holmes stood in front of me, his mouth curled up into an excited little smirk.

"Want to see some more?" he asked, his voice low and somehow alluring, his eyes flickering in the dusty light from the window.

Opening my mouth, I quickly considered everything. What had happened? Oh, yes. He was asking me to join him on a case.

My heart beginning to beat quickly in excitement, I let my mouth do the talking rather than my brain, my voice escaping in a tiny whisper as I responded:

"Oh, God, yes."

-fin-


End file.
